$ 


" 


• 

. 


; 


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LESSONS  IN  LIFE. 


SEKIES    OF   FAMILIAR   ESSAYS 


<j"  TIHOTHY  TITCOMB, 

AUTHOR  OF  "LETTERS  TO  THE  YOUNG,"  "GOLD-FOIL,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK: 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER,  124  GRAND  STREET. 
1861. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S61, 

BY  CHARLES  SCEIBNER, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  th& 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


JOHN  F.  THOTT, 

PRINTER,  STEBEOTYPER,  AND  ELECTROTYPES, 

48  ti  50  Greene  Street, 

New  York. 


PREFACE. 


THE  quick  and  cordial  reception  which  greeted 
the  author's  "  Letters  to  the  Young,"  and  his  more 
recent  series  of  essays  entitled  "  Gold  Foil,"  and 
the  constant  and  substantial  friendship  which  has 
been  maintained  by  the  public  toward  those  pro- 
ductions, must  stand  as  his  apology  for  this  third 
venture  in  a  kindred  field  of  effort.  It  should  be 
— and  probably  is — unnecessary  for  the  author  to 
say  that  in  this  book,  as  in  its  predecessors,  he  has 
aimed  to  be  neither  brilliant  nor  profound.  He 
has  endeavored,  simply,  to  treat  in  a  familiar  and 
attractive  way  a  few  of  the  more  prominent  ques- 
tions which  concern  the  life  of  every  thoughtful 
man  and  woman.  Indeed,  he  can  hardly  pretend  to 

2039971 


6  Preface. 

have  done  more  than  to  organize,  and  put  into 
form,  the  average  thinking  of  those  who  read  his 
books — to  place  before  the  people  the  sum  of  their 
own  choicer  judgments — and  he  neither  expects 
nor  wishes  for  these  essays  higher  praise  than  that 
which  accords  to  them  the  quality  of  common 
sense. 

SPRINGFIELD,  MASS., 
November,  1861. 


CONTENTS 


LESSON  I.  PAGE 

MOODS  AND  FRAMES  OF  MIND, 9 

LESSON  II. 
BODILY  IMPERFECTIONS  AND  IMPEDIMENTS, 25 

LESSON  IIL 
ANIMAL  CONTENT, 39 

LESSON  IV. 
REPRODUCTION  IN  KIND, 54 

LESSON  V. 
TRUTH  AND  TRUTHFULNESS, 68 

LESSON  VI. 
MISTAKES  OF  PENANCE, 83 

LESSON  VII. 
THE  RIGHTS  OF  WOMAN, 96 

LESSON  VIIL 
AMERICAN  PUBLIC  EDUCATION, 109 

LESSON  IX. 
PERTERSENESS, 123 

LESSON  X. 
UNDEVELOPED  RESOURCES, 13Y 


Contents. 


LESSON  XI.  PAGE 

GREATNESS  IN  -LITTLENESS, .- 150 

LESSON  XII. 
RURAL  LIFE, 1C2 

LESSON  XIII. 
REPOSE, 177 

LESSON  XIV. 
THE  WAYS  OF  CHARITY, 192 


LESSON  XV. 


MEN  OF  ONE  IDEA,. 


208 


LESSON  XVI. 
SHYING  PEOPLE, 222 


LESSON  XVII. 


FAITH  IN  HUMANITY,. 


LESSON  XVIII. 
SORE  SPOTS  AND  SENSITIVE  SPOTS, 


LESSON  XIX. 
THE  INFLUENCE  OF  PRAISE, 


236 
250 
265 


LESSON  XX, 
UNNECESSARY  BURDEXS, 278 


LESSON  XXI. 
PROPER  PEOPLE  AND  PERFECT  PEOPLE,... 


LESSON  XXII. 


THE  POETIC  TEST, 


LESSON  XXIII. 


THE  FOOD  OF  LIFE, 


291 
305 

320 


LESSON    XXIV. 
HALF-FINISHED  WORK, 333 


LESSONS  IN  LIFE. 


LESSON  I. 

MOODS   AND    FRAMES    OF   MIND. 

"That  blessed  mood 
In  which  the  burden  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world 
Is  lightened."  WORDSWOKTH. 

"  Oh,  blessed  temper,  whose  unclouded  ray 
Can  make  to-morrow  cheerful  as  to-day." 

POPS. 

"  My  heart  and  mind  and  self,  never  in  tune ; 
Sad  for  the  most  part,  then  in  such  a  flow 
Of  spirits,  I  seem  now  hero,  now  buffoon  " 

LEIGH  Hrsr. 

IT  rained  yesterday  ;  and,  though  it  is  midsummer, 
it  is  unpleasantly  cool  to-day.     The  sky  is  clear, 
with  almost  a  steel-blue  tint,  and  the  meadows  are  very 
deeply  green.     The   shadows   among  the  woods  are 
black  and  massive,  and  the  whole  face  of  nature  looks 
painfully  clean,  like  that  of  a  healthy  little  boy  who 
1* 


10  Leffons  in  Life. 

has  been  bathed  in  a  chilly  room  with  very  cold  water. 
I  notice  that  I  am  sensitive  to  a  change  like  this,  and 
that  my  mind  goes  very  reluctantly  to  its  task  this 
morning.  I  look  out  from  my  window,  and  think  how 
delightful  it  would  be  to  take  a  seat  in  the  sun,  down 
under  the  fence,  across  the  street.  It  seems  to  me  that 
if  I  could  sit  there  awhile,  and  get  warm,  I  could  think 
better  and  write  better.  Toasting  in  the  sunlight  is 
conducive  rather  to  reverie  than  thought,  or  I  should 
be  inclined  to  try  it.  This  reluctance  to  commence 
labor,  and  this  looking  out  of  the  window  and  longing 
for  an  accession  of  strength,  or  warmth,  or  inspiration, 
or  something  or  other  not  easily  named,  calls  back  to 
me  an  experience  of  childhood. 

It  was  summer,  and  I  was  attending  school.  The 
seats  were  hard,  and  the  lessons  were  dry,  and  the 
walls  of  the  school-room  were  very  cheerless.  An  in- 
dulgent, sweet-faced  girl  was  my  teacher  ;  and  I  pre- 
sume that  she  felt  the  irksomeness  of  the  confinement 
quite  as  severely  as  I  did.  The  weather  was  delight- 
ful, and  the  birds  were  singing  everywhere ;  and  the 
thought  came  to  me,  that  if  I  could  only  stay  out  of 
doors,  and  lie  down  in  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  I  could 
get  my  lesson.  I  begged  the  privilege  of  trying  the 
experiment.  The  kind  heart  that  presided  over  the 
school-room  could  not  resist  my  petition ;  so  I  was 
soon  lying  in  the  coveted  shadow.  I  went  to  work 


Moods  and  Frames  of  Mind.  n 

very  severely ;  but  the  next  moment  found  my  eyes 
wandering ;  and  heart,  feeling,  and  fancy  were  going  up 
and  down  the  earth  in  the  most  vagrant  fashion.  It 
was  hopeless  dissipation  to  sit  under  the  tree ;  and 
discovering  a  huge  rock  on  the  hillside,  I  made  my 
way  to  that,  to  try  what  virtue  there  might  be  in  a 
shadow  not  produced  by  foliage.  Seated  under  the 
brow  of  the  boulder,  I  again  applied  myself  to  the 
dim-looking  text,  but  it  had  become  utterly  meaning- 
less ;  and  a  musical  cricket  under  the  rock  would  have 
put  me  to  sleep  if  I  had  permitted  myself  to  remain. 
I  found  that  neither  tree  nor  rock  would  lend  me  help ; 
but  down  in  the  meadow  I  saw  the  brook  sparkling, 
and  spanning  it,  a  little  bridge  where  I  had  been  ac- 
customed to  sit,  hanging  my  feet  over  the  water,  and 
angling  for  minnows.  It  seemed  as  if  the  bridge  and 
the  water  might  do  something  for  me,  and,  in  a  few  min- 
utes, my  feet  were  dangling  from  the  accustomed  seat. 
There,  almost  under  my  nose,  close  to  the  bottom  of 
the  clear,  cool  stream,  lay  a  huge  speckled  trout,  fan- 
ning the  sand  with  his  slow  fins,  and  minding  nothing 
about  me  at  all.  What  could  a  boy  do  with  Colburn's 
First  Lessons,  when  a  living  trout,  as  large  and  nearly 
as  long  as  his  arm,  lay  almost  within  the  reach  of  his 
fingers  ?  How  long  I  sat  there  I  do  not  know,  but  the 
tinkle  of  a  distant  bell  startled  me,  and  I  startled  the 
trout,  and  fish  and  vision  faded  before  the  terrible  con- 


12  Leffons  in  Life. 

sciousness  that  I  knew  less  of  ray  lesson  than  I  did 
when  I  left  the  school-house. 

-This  has  always  been  my  fortune  when  running 
after,  or  looking  for,  moods.  There  is  a  popular  hal- 
lucination that  makes  of  authors  a  romantic  people 
who  are  entirely  dependent  upon  moods  and  mo- 
ments of  inspiration  for  the  power  to  labor  in  their 
peculiar  way.  Authors  are  supposed  to  write  when 
they  "feel  like  it,"  and  at  no  other  time.  Visions 
of  Byron  with  a  gin-bottle  at  his  side,  and  a  beautiful 
woman  hanging  over  his  shoulder,  dashing  off  a  dozen 
stanzas  of  Clrilde  Harold  at  a  sitting,  flit  through  the 
brains  of  sentimental  youth.  We  hear  of  women  who 
are  seized  suddenly  by  an  idea,  as  if  it  were  a  colic, 
or  a  flea,  often  at  midnight,  and  are  obliged  to  rise 
and  dispose  of  it  in  some  way.  We  are  told  of  very 
delicate  girls  who  carry  pencils  and  cards  with  them, 
to  take  the  names  and  address  of  such  angels  as  may 
visit  them  in  out-of-the-way  places.  We  read  of  poets 
who  go  on  long  sprees,  and  after  recovery  retire  to 
their  rooms  and  work  night  and  day,  eating  not  and 
sleeping  little,  and  in  some  miraculous  way  producing 
wonderful  literary  creations.  The  mind  of  a  literary 
man  is  supposed  to  be  like  a  shallow  summer  brook, 
that  turns  a  mill.  There  is  no  water  except  when  it 
rains,  and  the  weather  being  very  fickle,  it  is  never 
known  when  there  will  be  water.  Sometimes,  how- 


Moods  and  Frames  of  Mind.  13 

ever,  there  comes  a  freshet,  and  then  the  mill  runs 
night  and  day,  until  the  water  subsides,  and  another 
dry  time  comes  on. 

Now,  while  I  am  aware,  as  every  writer  must  be, 
that  the  brain  works  very  much  better  at  some  times 
than  it  does  at  others,  I  can  declare  without  reserva- 
tion, that  no  man  who  depends  upon  moods  for  the 
power  to  write  can  possibly  accomplish  much.  I  know 
men  who  rely  upon  their  moods,  alike  for  the  disposi- 
tion and  the  ability  to  write,  but  they  are,  without  ex- 
ception, lazy  and  inefficient  men.  They  never  have  ac- 
complished much,  and  they  never  will  accomplish  much. 
Regular  eating,  regular  sleeping,  regular  working — 
these  are  the  secrets  of  all  true  literary  success.  A  man 
may  throw  off  a  single  little  poem  by  a  spasm,  but  he 
cannot  write  a  poem  of  three  thousand  lines  by  spasms. 
Spasms  that  produce  poems  like  this,  must  last  from 
five  to  seven  hours  a  day,  through  six  days  of  every 
week,  and  four  weeks  of  every  month,  until  the  work 
shall  be  finished.  There  is  no  good  reason  why  the 
mind  will  not  do  its  best  by  regular  exercise  and 
usage.  The  mower  starts  in  the  morning  with  a  lame 
back  and  with  aching  joints  ;  but  he  keeps  on  mowing, 
and  the  glow  rises,  and  the  perspiration  starts,  and  he 
becomes  interested  in  his  labor,  and,  at  length,  he  finds 
himself  at  work  with  full  efficiency.  He  was  not  in 
the  mood  for  mowing  when  he  began,  but  mowing 


14  Leffons  in  Life. 

brought  its  own  mood,  and  he  knew  it  would  when  he 
began.  The  mind  is  sometimes  lame  in  the  morning. 
It  refuses  to  go  to  work.  Our  wills  seem  entirely  in- 
sufficient to  drive  it  to  its  tasks  ;  but  if  it  be  driven  to 
its  work  and  held  to  it  persistently,  and  held  thus  every 
day,  it  will  ultimately  be  able  to  do  its  best  every  day. 
A  man  who  works  his  brains  for  a  living,  must  work 
them  just  as  regularly  as  the  omnibus-driver  does  his 
horses. 

We  sometimes  go  to  church  and  hear  a  preacher 
who  depends  upon  his  moods  for  the  power  to  preach 
his  best.  He  preaches  well,  and  we  say  that  he  is  in 
the  mood  ;  and  then  again  he  preaches  poorly,  and  we 
say  that  he  is  not  in  the  mood.  A  public  singer  who 
has  the  power  to  move  us  at  her  will,  comes  into  the 
concert-room,  and  gives  her  music  without  spirit  and 
without  making  any  apparent  effort  to  please.  We 
say  that  Madame  or  Mademoiselle  is  "  not  in  the  mood 
to-night."  A  lecturer  has  his  moods,  which,  appa- 
rently, he  slips  on  and  off  as  he  would  a  dressing-gown, 
charming  the  people  of  one  town  by  his  eloquence  and 
elegance,  and  disgusting  another  by  his  dullness  and 
carelessness.  We  are  in  the  habit  of  saying  that  cer- 
tain men  are  very  unequal  in  their  performances,  which 
is  only  a  way  of  saying  that  they  arc  moody,  and  de- 
pendent upon  and  controlled  by  moods.  I  think  that, 
in  any  work  or  walk  of  life,  a  man  can  in  a  great  de- 


Moods  and  Frames  of  Mind.  15 

gree  become  the  master  of  his  moods,  so  that,  as  a 
preacher,  or  a  singer,  or  a  lecturer,  he  can  do  his  best 
every  time  quite  as  regularly  as  a  writer  can  do  his 
best  every  time.  Mr.  Benedict  somewhat  inelegantly 
remarked,  when  in  this  country,  that  the  reason  of 
Jenny  Lind's  success  was,  that  she  "  made  a  conscience 
of  her  art."  If  we  had  asked  Mr.  Benedict  to  explain 
himself,  he  probably  would  have  said  that  she  con- 
scientiously did  her  best  every  time,  in  every  place. 
This  was  true  of  Jenny  Lind.  She  never  failed.  She 
sang  just  as  well  in  the  old  church  where  the  country 
people  had  flocked  to  greet  her,  as  in  the  halls  of  the 
metropolis.  Yet  Jenny  Lind  was  decidedly  a  woman 
of  moods,  and  indulged  in  them  when  she  could  af- 
ford it. 

The  power  of  the  will  over  moods  of  the  mind  is  very 
noticeable  in  children.  Children  often  rise  in  the  morn- 
ing in  any  thing  but  an  amiable  frame  of  mind.  Petu- 
lant, impatient,  quarrelsome,  they  cannot  be  spoken  to 
or  touched  without  producing  an  explosion  of  ill-nature. 
Sleep  seems  to  have  been  a  bath  of  vinegar  to  them, 
and  one  would  think  the  fluid  had  invaded  their  mouth 
and  nose,  and  eyes  and  ears,  and  had  been  absorbed  by 
every  pore  of  their  sensitive  skins.  In  a  condition  like 
this,  I  have  seen  them  bent  over  the  parental  knee,  and 
their  persons  subjected  to  blows  from  the  parental 
palm  ;  and  they  have  emerged  from  the  infliction  with 


16  Leffons  in  Life. 

the  vinegar  all  expelled,  and  their  faces  shining  like  the 
morning — the  transition  complete  and  satisfactory  to  all 
the  parties.  Three-quarters  of  the  moods  that  men 
and  women  find  themselves  in,  ai'e  just  as  much  under 
the  control  of  the  will  as  this.  The  man  who  rises  in 
the  morning,  with  his  feelings  all  bristling  like  the  quills 
of  a  hedge-hog,  simply  needs  to  be  knocked  down. 
Like  a  solution  of  certain  salts,  he  requires  a  rap  to 
make  him  crystallize.  A  great  many  mean  things  are 
done  in  the  family  for  which  moods  are  put  forward  as 
the  excuse,  when  the  moods  themselves  are  the  most 
inexcusable  things  of  all.  A  man  or  a  woman  in  tol- 
erable health  has  no  moral  right  to  indulge  in  an  un- 
pleasant mood,  or  to  depend  upon  moods  for  the  per- 
formance of  the  duties  of  life.  If  a  bad  mood  come 
to  such  persons  as  these,  it  is  to  be  shaken  off  by  a 
direct  effort  of  the  will,  under  all  circumstances. 

There  arc  moods,  however,  for  which  men  are  not 
responsible,  and  the  parent  of  these  is  sickness — the  fee- 
ble or  inharmonious  movements  of  the  body.  When  my 
little  boy  wakes  in  the  morning,  his  smile  is  as  bright  as 
the  pencil  of  sunlight  that  lies  across  his  coverlet ;  but 
when  evening  comes,  he  is  peevish  and  fretful.  The 
little  limbs  are  weary,  and  the  mood  is  produced  by 
weariness.  So  my  friend  with  a  harassing  cough  is  in 
a  melancholy  mood,  and  my  bilious  friend  is  in  a  severe 
and  savage  mood,  or  in  a  dark  and  gloomy  mood,  or 


Moods  and  Frames  of  Mind.  17 

in  a  petulant  mood,  or  in  a  fearful  or  foreboding  mood, 
la  truth,  bile  is  the  prolific  mother  of  moods.  The 
stream  of  life  flows  through  the  biliary  duct.  When 
that  is  obstructed,  life  is  obstructed.  When  the 
golden  tide  sets  back  upon  the  liver,  it  is  like  back- 
water under  a  mill ;  it  stops  the  driving-wheel.  Bile 
spoils  the  peace  of  families,  breaks  off  friendships,  cuts 
off  man  from  communion  with  his  Maker,  colors  whole 
systems  of  theology,  transforms  brains  into  putty,  and 
destroys  the  comfort  of  a  jaundiced  world.  The  fa- 
mous Dr.  Abernethy  had  his  hobby,  as  most  famous 
men  have ;  and  this  hobby  was  "  blue  pill  and  ipecac," 
which  he  prescribed  for  every  thing,  with  the  supposi- 
tion, I  presume,  that  all  disease  has  its  origin  in  the 
liver.  Most  moods,  I  am  sure,  have  their  birth  in  the 
derangements  of  this  important  organ  ;  and  while  the 
majority  of  them  can  be  controlled,  there  are  others 
for  which  their  victims  are  not  responsible.  There  are 
men  who  cannot  insult  me,  because  I  will  not  take  an  in- 
sult from  them  any  more  than  I  would  from  a  man  in- 
toxicated. When  their  bile  starts,  I  am  sure  they  will 
come  to  me  and  apologize. 

We  all  have  acquaintances  who  are  men  of  moods. 
Whenever  we  meet  them,  we  try  to  determine  which 
of  their  moods  is  dominant,  that  we  may  know  how  to 
treat  them.  If  the  severe  mood  be  on,  we  would  just 
as  soon  think  of  whistling  at  a  funeral  as  indulsnncc  in  a 


18  Leffons  in  Life. 

jest ;  but  if  the  cloud  be  off,  we  have  a  sprightly  friend 
and  a  pleasant  time  with  him.  Goldsmith's  pedagogue 
was  a  man  of  moods,  and  his  pupils  understood  them. 

"A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view  ; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew : 
Well  had  the  boding  trembler's  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned." 

While  I  maintain  that  a  man  can  generally  be  the  mas- 
ter of  his  moods,  I  am  very  well  aware  that  but  few 
men  are  ;  and  it  is  wise  for  us  to  know  how  to  deal 
with  them.  The  secret  of  many  a  man's  success  in  the 
world  resides  in  his  insight  into  the  moods  of  men,  and 
his  tact  in  dealing  with  them.  Modern  Christian  phi- 
lanthropists tell  us  that  if  we  would  do  good  to  the 
soul  of  a  starving  child,  we  must  first  put  food  into  his 
mouth,  and  comfortable  clothing  upon  his  body.  This, 
by  way  of  manifesting  a  practical  interest  in  his  wel- 
fare, and  paving  our  way  to  his  heart  by  a  form  of 
kindness  which  he  can  thoroughly  appreciate.  But 
there  is  more  in  such  an  act  than  this, — we  change  his 
mood.  From  a  mood  of  despair  or  discouragement, 
we  translate  him  into  a  mood  of  cheerfulness  and  hope- 
fulness ;  and  then  we  have  a  soul  to  deal  with  that  is 
surrounded  by  the  conditions  of  improvement.  There 


Moods  and  Frames  of  Mind.  19 

is  much  more  than  divine  duty  and  Christian  forgive- 
ness in  the  injunction :  "  if  thine  enemy  hunger,  feed 
him  ;  if  he  thirst,  give  him  drink."  The  highest  wis- 
dom would  dictate  such  a  policy  for  changing  his  mood, 
and  bringing  him  into  a  condition  in  which  he  could 
entertain  a  sense  of  his  meanness. 

It  is  curious  to  see  how  much  fulness  and  emptiness 
of  stomach  have  to  do  with  moods.  A  business  man 
who  has  been  at  work  hard  ah1  day,  will  enter  his  house 
for  dinner  as  crabbed  as  a  hungry  bear — crabbed  be- 
cause he  is  as  hungry  as  a  hungry  bear.  The  wife 
understands  the  mood,  and,  while  she  says  little  to 
him,  is  careful  not  to  have  the  dinner  delayed.  In  the 
mean  time,  the  children  watch  him  cautiously,  and  do 
not  tease  him  with  questions.  When  the  soup  is  gulped, 
and  he  leans  back  and  wipes  his  mouth,  there  is  an  evi- 
dent relaxation,  and  his  wife  ventures  to  ask  for  the 
news.  When  the  roast  beef  is  disposed  of,  she  pre- 
sumes upon  gossip,  and  possibly  upon  a  jest ;  and  when, 
at  last,  the  dessert  is  spread  upon  the  table,  all  hands 
are  merry,  and  the  face  of  the  husband  and  father,  which 
entered  the  house  so  pinched  and  savage  and  sharp,  be- 
comes soft  and  full  and  beaming  as  the  face  of  the 
round  summer  moon.  Children  are  very  sensitive  to  the 
influence  of  hunger  ;  and  often  when  we  think  that  we 
are  witnessing  some  fearful  proof  of  the  total  depravity 
of  human  nature  in  a  young  child,  we  are  only  witnessing 


20  Leffons  in  Life. 

the  natural  expression  of  a  desire  for  bread  and  milk. 
The  politicians  and  all  that  class  of  men  who  have  axes 
to  grind,  understand  this  business  very  thoroughly.  If 
a  measure  is  to  be  carried  through,  and  any  man  wishes 
to  secure  votes  for  it,  he  gives  a  dinner.  If  a  man 
wishes  for  a  profitable  contract,  he  gives  a  dinner.  If 
he  is  up  for  a  fat  office,  he  gives  a  dinner.  If  it  is  de- 
sirable that  a  pair  of  estranged  friends  be  brought  to- 
gether, and  reconciled  to  each  other,  they  are  invited 
to  a  dinner.  If  hostile  interests  are  to  be  harmonized, 
and  clashing  measures  compromised,  and  divergent 
forces  brought  into  parallelism,  all  must  be  effected  by 
means  of  a  dinner.  A  good  dinner  produces  a  good 
mood, — at  least,  it  produces  an  impressible  mood. 
The  will  relaxes  wonderfully  under  the  influence  of 
iced  champagne,  and  canvas-backs  are  remarkable 
softeners  of  prejudice.  The  daughter  of  Herodias 
took  Herod  at  a  great  disadvantage,  when  she  came  in 
and  danced  before  him  and  his  friends  at  his  birth-day 
supper,  and  secured  the  head  of  John  the  Baptist.  No 
one,  I  presume,  believes  that  if  she  had  undertaken  to 
dance  before  him  when  he  was  hungry,  she  would  have 
had  the  offer  of  a  gift  equal  to  the  half  of  his  kingdom. 
It  is  more  than  likely  that,  under  any  other  circum- 
stances, she  would  have  been  told  to  "  sit  down  and 
show  less."  It  is  by  means  of  food  and  drink,  and 
various  entertainments  of  the  senses,  that  moods  are 


Moods  and  Frames  of  Mind.  21 

manufactured,  and  used  as  media  of  approach  to  the 
wills  which  it  is  desirable  to  bend  or  direct. 

I  have  found  moods  to  be  very  poor  tests  of  charac- 
ter. Having  cut  through  the  crust  of  a  most  forbidding 
mood,  produced  by  bodily  derangement  or  constant 
and  pressing  labor  of  the  brain,  I  have  often  found  a 
heart  full  of  all  the  sweetest  and  richest  traits  of  hu- 
manity. I  have  found,  too,  that  some  natures  know 
the  door  that  leads  through  the  moods  of  other  natures. 
There  are  men  who  never  present  their  moody  side  to 
me.  My  neighbor  enters  their  presence  and  finds  them 
severe  in  aspect,  hard  in  feeling,  and  abrupt  in  speech. 
I  go  in  immediately  after,  and  open  the  door  right 
through  that  mood,  into  the  genial  good  heart  that  sits 
behind  it,  and  the  door  always  flies  open  when  I  come. 
I  know  men  whose  mood  is  usually  exceedingly  pleas- 
ant. There  is  a  glow  of  health  upon  their  faces.  Their 
words  are  musical  to  women  and  children.  They  are 
cheerful  and  chipper  and  sunshiny,  and  not  easily 
moved  to  anger  ;  and  yet  I  know  them  to  be  liars  and 
full  of  selfishness.  Under  their  sweet  mood,  which 
sound  health  and  a  not  over-sensitive  conscience  and 
the  satisfactions  of  sense  engender,  they  conceal  hearts 
that  are  as  false  and  foul  as  any  that  illustrate  the  reign 
of  sin  in  human  nature.  Many  a  Christian  has  times  of 
feeling  that  God  is  in  a  special  manner  smiling  upon 
him,  and  communing  with  him,  and  filling  him  with  the 


22  Leffons  in  Life. 

peace  and  joy  that  only  flow  from  heavenly  fountains, 
when  the  truth  is  that  he  is  only  in  a  good  mood.  He  is 
well,  ah1  the  machinery  of  his  mind  and  body  is  playing 
harmoniously,  and,  of  course,  he  feels  well,  and  that  is 
all  there  is  about  it.  He  is  not  a  better  Christian  than 
he  was  when  he  slipped  into  the  mood,  and  no  better 
than  he  will  be  when  he  slips  out  of  it.  If  he  really  be 
a  good  Christian,  his  moods  operate  like  clouds  and 
blue  sky.  The  sun  shines  all  the  time,  and  the  cloudy 
moods  only  hide  it ; — they  do  not  extinguish  it. 

There  are  many  sad  cases  of  insanity  of  a  religious 
character  which  originate  in  moods.  A  man,  through 
a  period  of  health,  has  a  bright  and  cheerful  religious 
experience.  The  world  looks  pleasant  to  him,  the 
heavens  smile  kindly  upon  him,  and  the  Divine  Spirit 
witnesses  with  his  own  that  he  is  at  peace  and  in  har- 
mony with  God.  Joy  thrills  him  as  he  greets  the 
morning  light,  and  peace  nestles  upon  his  heart  as  he 
lies  down  to  his  nightly  rest.  He  feels  in  his  soul  the 
influx  of  spiritual  life  from  the  Great  Source  of  all  life, 
as  he  opens  it  in  worship  and  in  prayer.  But  at  length 
there  comes  a  change.  A  strange  sadness  creeps  into 
his  heart.  The  sky  that  was  once  so  bright  has  become 
dark.  The  prayer  that  once  rose  as  easily  as  incense 
upon  the  still  morning  air,  straight  toward  heaven,  will 
not  rise  at  all,  but  settles  like  smoke  upon  him,  and 
fills  his  eyes  with  tears.  Something  seems  to  have 


Moods  and  Frames  of  Mind.  23 

come  between  him  and  his  God.  Strange,  accusing 
voices  are  heard  within  him.  However  deep  the 
agony  that  moves  him,  he  cannot  rend  the  cloud  that 
interposes  between  him  and  his  Maker.  This,  now,  is 
simply  a  mood  produced  by  ill  health ;  and  I  hope  that 
everybody  who  reads  this  will  remember  it.  Remem- 
ber that  God  never  changes,  that  a  man's  moods  are 
constantly  changing,  and  that  when  a  man  earnestly 
seeks  for  spiritual  peace,  and  cannot  find  it,  and  thinks 
that  he  has  committed  the  unpardonable  sin  without 
knowing  it,  he  is  bilious,  and  needs  medical  treatment. 
Alas !  what  multitudes  of  sad  soiils  have  walked  out  of 
this  hopeless  mood  into  a  life-long  insanity,  when  all 
they  needed  in  the  first  place,  perhaps,  was  a  dose  of 
blue  pills,  or  half  a  dozen  strings  of  tenpins,  or  a  sea- 
voyage  sufficiently  rough  for  "  practical  purposes." 

This  subject  I  find  to  be  abundantly  prolific,  and  I 
see  that  I  have  been  able  to  do  hardly  more  than  to 
hint  at  its  more  prominent  aspects.  It  seems  to  me 
that  moods  only  need  to  be  studied  more,  and  to  be 
better  understood,  to  bring  them  very  much  under  the 
domain  of  our  wills.  A  great  deal  is  learned  when  we 
know  what  a  mood  is,  and  know  that  we  are  subject  to 
varying  frames  of  mind,  resulting  from  causes  which 
affect  our  health.  If  I  know  that  I  am  impatient  and 
cross  because  I  am  hungry,  then  I  know  how  to  get  rid 
of  my  mood,  and  how  to  manage  it  until  I  do  get  rid 


24  LeiTons  in  Life. 

of  it.  If  I  feel  unable  to  labor,-not  because  I  am  feeble, 
but  because  I  am  not  in  the  mood,  then  I  have  the 
mood  in  my  hands,  to  be  dealt  with  intelligently.  If 
my  reason  tell  me  that  it  is  only  a  mood  that  hides 
from  me  the  face  of  my  Maker,  my  reason  will  also  tell 
me  that  my  first  business  is  to  get  rid  of  my  mood,  and 
that  my  will  must  approach  the  work,  directly  or  in- 
directly. We  are  always  and  necessarily  in  some  mood 
of  mind — in  some  condition  of  passion  or  feeling.  It  is 
the  intensification  and  the  dominant  influence  of  moods 
that  are  to  be  guarded  against  or  destroyed.  Moods 
are  dangerous  only  when  they  obscure  reason,  and  de- 
stroy self-control,  and  disturb  the  mental  poise,  and 
become  the  media  of  false  impressions  from  all  the  life 
around  us  and  within  us. 


LESSON  II. 

BODILY  IMPEBFECTIONS   AJTD  IMPEDIMENTS 

"  I  that  am  curtailed  of  this  fair  proportion, 
Cheated  of  feature  by  dissembling  nature, 
Deformed,  unfinished,  sent  before  my  time 
Into  this  breathing  world,  scarce  half  made  up." 

JilCHAED   ILL 

"None  can  be  called  deformed  but  the  unkind." 
SHAXSPEAEE. 

"Tis  true,  his  nature  may  •with  faults  abound ; 
But  who  will  cavil  when  the  heart  is  sound  ?  " 
STEPHEN  MONTAGUE, 

Eis  a  bright  June  morning.     The  fresh  grass  is 
oaded  with  dew,  every  bead  of  which  sparkles  in 
the  light  of  the  brilliant  sun.     A  big,  yellow-shouldered 
bee  comes  booming  through  the  open  window,  and 
buzzes  up  and  down  my  room,  and  threatens  my  shrink- 
ing  ears,  and  then  dives  through  the  window  again ; 
and  his  form  recedes  and  his  hum  dies  away,  as  if  it 
were  the  note  of  a  reed-stop  in  the  "  swell "  of  a  church 
organ.    There  is  such  confusion  in  the  songs  of  the 
2 


26  Leffons  in  Xife. 

birds,  that  I  can  hardly  select  the  different  notes,  so  as 
to  name  their  owners.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  bird- 
singing  that  is  simply  what  a  weaver  would  call  "  fill- 
ing." Robins  and  bobolinks  and  blue-birds  and  sundry 
other  favorites  furnish  the  warp,  and  color  and  charac- 
terize the  tapestry  of  a  flowing,  vocal  morning  ;  while 
the  little,  gray-backed  multitude  work  in  the  neutral 
ground  tones,  and  bring  the  sweeter  and  more  elabo- 
rate notes  into  beautiful  relief.  Thus,  with  a  little  aid 
of  imagination,  I  get  up  some  very  exquisite  fabrics — 
vocal  silks  and  satins  : — robins  on  a  field  of  chickadees ; 
bobolinks  and  thrushes  alternately  on  a  hit-or-miss 
ground  of  blackbirds,  wrens,  and  pewees.  Into  the 
midst  of  all  this  delicious  confusion  there  breaks  a  note 
that  belongs  to  another  race  of  creatures;  and  as  I 
look  from  my  window,  and  see  the  singer,  my  eyes  fill 
with  tears.  It  is  a  little  boy,  possibly  twelve  years 
old,  though  he  looks  younger,  walking  wTith  a  crutch. 
One  withered  limb  dangles  as  he  goes.  He  is  a  cripple 
for  life ;  yet  his  face  is  as  bright  and  cheerful  as  the 
face  of  the  morning  itself;  and  what  do  you  think  he  is 
singing  ?  "  Hail  Columbia,  happy  land,"  at  the  top  of 
his  lungs !  The  birds  are  merrily  wheeling  over  his 
head,  and  diving  through  the  air,  and  moving  here  and 
there  as  freely  as  the  wind,  yet  not  one  among  them 
carries  a  lighter  heart  than  that  which  he  is  jerking 
along  by  the  side  of  the  little  crutch. 


Bodily  Imperfeftions  and  Impediments.    27 

As  I  see  how  cheerfully  he  bears  the  burden  of  his 
hopeless  halting,  there  comes  back  to  me  the  story  of 
the  lame  lord  who  sang  a  different  sort  of  song — the 
lame  lord  who  died  at  Missolonghi,  and  whose  friend 
Trelawny — human  jackal  that  he  was — stole  to  his  bed- 
side after  the  breath  had  left  his  body,  and  examined 
his  clubbed  feet,  and  then  went  away  and  wrote  about 
them.  Here  was  a  man  with  regal  gifts  of  mind — a 
poet  of  splendid  genius — a  titled  aristocrat — a  man  ad- 
mired and  praised  wherever  the  English  language  was 
read — a  man  who  knew  that  he  held  within  himself  the 
power  to  make  his  name  immortal — a  man  with  wealth 
sufficient  for  all  grateful  luxuries — yet  with  clubbed 
feet ;  and  those  feet !  Ah  !  how  they  embittered  and 
spoiled  that  man  of  magnificent  achievements  and  sub- 
lime possibilities !  It  would  appear,  from  the  disgusting 
narrative  of  Mr.  Trelawny,  that  he  was  in  reality  the 
only  man  who  had  ever  seen  Byron's  feet.  Those  feet 
had  been  kept  so  closely  hidden,  or  so  cunningly  dis- 
guised, that  nobody  had  known  their  real  deformity ; 
and  the  poor  lord  who  had  carried  them  through  his 
thirty-six  years  of  life,  had  done  it  in  constantly  tor- 
mented and  mortified  pride.  Those  misshapen  organs 
had  an  important  agency  in  making  him  a  misanthropic, 
morbidly  sensitive,  unhappy,  desperate  man.  When 
he^ang,  he  did  not  forget  them ;  and  the  poor  fools  who 
turned  down  their  shirt-collars,  and  imitated  his  songs, 


28  Leffons  in  Life. 

and  thought  they  were  inspired  by  his  winged  genius, 
had  under  them  only  a  pair  of  halting,  clubbed  feet. 

There  is  a  class  of  unfortunate  men  and  women  in 
the  world  to  whom  the  boy  and  the  bard  have  intro- 
duced us.  They  are  not  all  lame :  but  they  all  think  they 
have  cause  to  be  dissatisfied  with  the  bodies  God  has 
given  them.  Perhaps  they  are  simply  ugly,  and  are 
aware  that  no  one  can  look  in  their  faces  with  other 
thought  than  that  they  are  ugly.  Now  it  is  a  pleasant 
thing  to  have  a  pleasant  face,  and  an  agreeable  form. 
It  is  pleasant  for  a  man  to  be  large,  well-shaped,  and 
good-looking,  and  it  is  unpleasant  for  him  to  be  small, 
and  to  carry  an  ill-shaped  form  and  an  ugly  face.  It  is 
pleasant  for  a  woman  to  feel  that  she  has  personal  attrac- 
tions for  those  around  her,  and  it  is  unpleasant  for  her  to 
feel  that  no  man  can  ever  turn  his  eyes  admiringly  upon 
her.  A  misshapen  limb,  a  hump  in  the  back,  a  withered 
arm,  a  shortened  leg,  a  clubbed  foot,  a  hare-lip,  an  un- 
wieldy corpulence,  a  hideous  leanness,  a  bald  head — all 
these  are  unpleasant  possessions,  and  all  these,  I  sup- 
pose, give  their  possessors,  first  and  last,  a  great  deal 
of  pain.  Then  there  is  the  taint  of  an  unpopular  blood, 
that  a  whole  race  carry  with  them  as  a  badge  of  humili- 
ation. I  have  heard  of  Africans  who  declared  that 
they  would  willingly  go  through  the  pain  of  being 
skinned  alive,  if,  at  the  close  of  the  operation,  they 
could  become  white  men.  There  are  men  of  genius, 


Bodily  Imperfections  and  Impediments,    29 

with  plenty  of  white  blood  in  their  veins — with  only  a 
trace  of  Africa  in  their  faces — whose  lives  are  embit- 
tered by  that  trace ;  and  who  know  that  the  pure 
Anglo  Saxon,  if  he  follows  his  instincts,  will  say  to  him : 
"  Thus  far," — (through  a  limited  range  of  relations.) — 
"but  no  further." 

From  the  depths  of  my  soul  I  pity  a  man  or  woman 
who  bears  about  an  irremediable  bodily  deformity,  or 
the  mark  of  the  blood  of  a  humiliated  race.  I  pity  any 
human  being  who  carries  around  a  body  that  he  feels  to 
be  in  any  sense  an  unpleasant  one  to  those  whom  he 
meets.  I  pity  the  deformed  man,  and  the  maimed  man, 
and  the  terribly  ugly  man,  and  the  black  man,  and  the 
white  man  with  black  blood  in  him,  because  he  usually 
feels  that  these  things  bear  with  them  a  certain  degree 
of  humiliation.  I  pity  the  man  who  is  not  able  to 
stand  out  in  the  broad  sunlight,  with  other  men,  and 
to  feel  that  he  has  as  goodly  a  frame  and  as  fine  blood 
and  as  pleasant  a  presence  as  the  average  of  those  he 
sees  around  him.  I  do  not  wonder  at  all  that  many 
of  these  persons  become  soured  and  embittered  and 
jealous.  A  sensitive  mind,  dwelling  long  upon  mis- 
fortunes of  this  peculiar  character,  will  inevitably  be- 
come morbid ;  and  multitudes  of  humbler  men  than 
Lord  Byron  have  cursed  their  fate  as  bitterly  as  he,  and 
have  even  lifted  their  eyes  to  blaspheme  the  Being 
who  made  them. 


30  Leffons  in  Life. 


The  two  instances  which  I  have  mentioned  show  us 
that  there  are  two  ways  of  taking  misfortunes  of  this 
character  ;  and  one  of  them  seems  to  a  good  deal  bet- 
ter than  the  other.  Between  the  boy  who  ignored 
the  withered  leg  and  the  crutch,  and  the  proud  poet 
who  permitted  a  slight  personal  deformity  to  darken 
his  whole  life,  there  is  a  distance  like  that  between 
heaven  and  earth. 

I  believe  in  the  law  of  compensation.  Human  lot  is, 
on  the  whole,  well  averaged.  A  man  does  not  possess 
great  gifts  of  person  and  of  mind  without  drawbacks 
somewhere.  Either  great  duties  are  imposed  upon  him, 
or  great  burdens  are  put  upon  his  shoulders,  or  great 
temptations  assail  and  harass  him.  Something  in  his 
life,  at  some  time  in  his  life,  takes  it  upon  itself  to 
reduce  his  advantages  to  the  average  standard.  Na- 
ture gave  Byron  clubbed  feet,  but  with  those  feet  she 
gave  him  a  genius  whose  numbers  charmed  the  world 
— a  genius  which  multitudes  of  commonplace  or  weak 
men  would  have  been  glad  to  purchase  at  the  price  of 
almost  any  humiliating  eccentricity  of  person.  But  they 
were  obliged  to  content  themselves  with  excellent  feet, 
and  brains  of  the  common  kind  and  calibre.  Providence 
had  withered  the  little  boy's  leg,  but  the  loudest  song 
I  have  heard  from  a  boy  in  a  twelvemonth  came  from 
his  lips,  as  he  limped  along  alone  in  the  open  street. 
The  cheerful  heart  in  his  bosom  was  a  great  compen- 


Bodily  Imperfections  and  Impediments.    31 

sation  for  the  withered  leg ;  and  beyond  this  the  boy 
had  reason  for  singing  over  the  fact  that  he  was  forever 
released  from  military  duty,  and  firemen's  duty,  and  all 
racing  about  in  the  service  of  other  people.  There  are 
individual  cases  of  misfortune  in  which  it  is  hard  to  de- 
tect the  compensating  good,  but  these  we  must  call  the 
"  exceptions"  which  "  prove  the  rule." 

But  the  best  of  all  compensation  for  natural  defects 
and  deformities,  is  that  which  comes  in  the  form  of  a 
peculiar  love.  The  mother  of  a  poor,  misshapen,  idiotic 
boy,  will,  though  she  have  half  a  score  of  bright  and 
beautiful  children  besides,  entertain  for  him  a  peculiar 
affection.  He  may  not  be  able,  in  his  feeble-minded- 
ness,  to  appreciate  it,  but  her  heart  brims  with  tender- 
ness for  him.  The  delicate  morsel  is  reserved  for  him ; 
and,  if  he  be  a  sufferer,  the  softest  pillow  and  the  ten- 
derest  nursing  will  be  his.  A  love  will  be  bestowed 
upon  him  which  gold  could  not  buy,  and  which  no 
beauty  of  person  and  no  brilliancy  of  natural  gifts  could 
possibly  awaken.  It  is  thus  with  every  case  of  defect 
or  eccentricity  of  person.  So  sure  as  the  mother  of  a 
child  sees  in  that  child's  person  any  reason  for  the 
world  to  regard  it  with  contempt  or  aversion,  does  she 
treat  it  with  peculiar  tenderness ;  as  if  she  were  com- 
missioned by  God — as  indeed  she  is — to  make  up  to  it 
in  the  best  coinage  that  which  the  world  will  certainly 
neglect  to  bestow. 


32  Leflbns  in  Life. 

With  the  world  at  large,  however,  there  are  certain 
conditions  on  which  this  variety  of  compensation  is  ren- 
dered ;  and  a  man  who  would  have  compensation  for 
defects  of  person,  must  accept  these  conditions,  or  fur- 
nish them.  Such  a  man  as  Lord  Byron  would  have 
been  offended  by  pity.  To  have  been  commiserated 
on  his  misfortune,  would  have  made  him  exceedingly 
angry.  He  would  not  allow  himself  to  be  treated  as 
an  unfortunate  man.  He  bound  up  his  feet,  and  made 
efforts  to  walk  that  ended  in  intense  pain,  rather  than 
appear  the  lame  man  that  he  really  was.  Of  course, 
there  was  no  compensation  in  the  tender  pity  and  af- 
fectionate consideration  of  the  world  for  him  ;  nor  is 
there  any  for  the  sad  unfortunates  who  inherit  and  ex- 
ercise his  spirit.  But  for  all  those  who  accept  their 
life  with  all  its  conditions,  in  a  cheerful  spirit,  who  give 
up  their  pride,  who  take  their  bodies  as  God  formed 
them,  and  make  the  best  of  them,  there  is  abundant 
compensation  in  the  affection  of  the  world.  A  cheerful 
spirit,  exercised  in  weakness,  infirmity,  calamity — any 
sort  of  misfortune — is  just  as  sure  to  awaken  a  pecu- 
liarly affectionate  interest  in  all  observers,  as  a  lighted 
lamp  is  to  illuminate  the  objects  around  it.  I  know  of 
men  and  women  who  are  the  favorites  of  a  whole  neigh- 
boi'hood — nay,  a  whole  town — because  they  are  cheer- 
ful, and  courageous,  and  self-respectful  under  misfor- 
tune ;  and  I  know  of  those  Avho  are  as  much  dreaded 


Bodily  Imperfections  and  Impediments.    33 

as  a  pestilence,  because  they  will  not  accept  their  lot — 
because  they  grow  bitter  and  jealous — and  because 
they  will  persist  in  taunts  and  complaints. 

The  number  of  those  who  are,  or  who  consider  them- 
selves, unfortunate  in  their  physical  conformation,  is 
larger  than  the  most  of  us  suppose.  I  presume  that  at 
least  one-half  of  the  readers  of  this  essay  are  any  thing 
but  well  satisfied  with  the  "  tabernacle  "  in  which  they 
reside.  One  man  wishes  he  were  a  little  larger ;  one 
woman  wishes  she  were  a  little  smaller  ;  one  does  not 
like  her  complexion,  or  the  color  of  her  eyes  and  hair ; 
one  has  a  nose  too  large  ;  another  has  a  nose  too  small ; 
one  has  round  shoulders  ;  another  has  a  low  forehead  ; 
and  so  every  one  becomes  a  critic  of  his  or  her  style  of 
structure.  When  we  find  a  man  or  a  woman  who  is  ab- 
solutely faultless  in  form  and  features,  we  usually  find  a 
fool.  I  do  not  remember  that  I  ever  met  a  very  hand- 
some man  or  woman,  who  was  not  as  vain  and  shallow 
as  a  peacock.  I  recently  met  a  magnificent  woman  of 
middle  age  at  a  railroad  station.  She  was  surrounded 
by  all  those  indescribable  somethings  and  nothings 
which  mark  the  rich  and  well-bred  traveller,  and  her 
face  was  queenly — not  sweet  and  pretty  like  a  doll's 
face — but  handsome  and  stylish,  and  strikingly  impres- 
sive, so  that  no  man  could  look  at  her  once  without 
turning  to  look  again  ;  yet  I  had  not  been  in  her  pres- 
ence a  minute,  before  I  found,  to  my  utter  disgust,  that 


34  Leffons  in  Life. 

the  old  creature  was  as  vain  of  her  charms  as  a  spoiled 
girl,  and  gloried  in  the  attention  which  she  was  con^ 
scious  her  face  everywhere  attracted.  It  would  seem 
as  if  nature,  in  making  up  mankind,  had  always  been  a 
little  short  of  materials,  so  that,  if  special  attention 
were  bestowed  upon  the  form,  and  face,  the  brain 
suffered ;  and  if  the  brain  received  particular  atten- 
tion, why  then  there  was  something  lacking  in  the 
body. 

This  large  class  of  malcontents  generally  find  some 
way  of  convincing  themselves,  however,  that  they  are 
as  good-looking  as  the  average  of  mankind.  They 
make  a  good  deal  of  some  special  points  of  beauty,  and 
imagine  that  these  quite  overshadow  their  defects. 
Still,  there  is  a  portion  of  them  who  can  never  do  this  ; 
and  I  think  of  them  with  a  sadness  which  it  is  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  express.  For  a  homely — even  an  ugly 
man — I  have  no  pity  to  spare.  I  never  saw  one  so 
ugly  yet,  that  if  he  had  brains  and  a  heart,  he  could  not 
find  a  beautiful  woman  sensible  enough  to  marry  him. 
But  for  the  hopelessly  plain  and  homely  sisters — "  these 
tears ! "  There  is  a  class  of  women  who  know  that 
they  possess  in  their  persons  no  attractions  for  men, — 
that  their  faces  are  homely,  that  their  frames  are  ill- 
formed,  that  their  carriage  is  clumsy,  and  that,  what- 
ever may  be  their  gifts  of  mind,  no  man  can  have  the 
slightest  desire  to  possess  their  persons.  That  there 


Bodily  Imperfections  and  Impediments.    35 

are  compensations  for  these  women,  I  have  no  doubt, 
but  many  of  them,  fail  to  find  them.  Many  of  them 
feel  that  the  sweetest  sympathies  of  life  must  be  re- 
pressed, and  that  there  is  a  world  of  affection  from 
which  they  must  remain  shut  out  forever.  It  is  hard 
for  a  woman  to  feel  that  her  person  is  not  pleasing — 
harder  than  for  a  man  to  feel  thus.  I  would  tell  why, 
if  it  were  necessary — for  there  is  a  bundle  of  very  in- 
teresting philosophy  tied  up  in  the  matter — but  I  will 
content  myself  with  stating  the  fact,  and  permitting  my 
readers  to  reason  about  it  as  they  will. 

Now,  if  a  homely  woman,  soured  and  discouraged 
by  her  lot,  becomes  misanthropic  and  complaining,  she 
will  be  as  little  loved  as  she  is  admired ;  but  if  she 
accepts  her  lot  good-naturedly,  makes  up  her  mind  to 
be  happy,  and  is  determined  to  be  agreeable  in  all  her 
relations  to  society,  she  will  be  everywhere  surrounded 
by  loving  and  sympathetic  hearts,  and  find  herself  a 
greater  favorite  than  she  would  be  were  she  beautiful. 
A  woman  who  is  entirely  beyond  the  reach  of  the  jeal- 
ousy of  her  own  sex,  is  an  exceedingly  fortunate 
woman ;  and  if  personal  homeliness  has  won  for  her 
this  immunity,  then  homeliness  has  given  her  much  to 
be  thankful  for.  A  homely  woman  who  ignores  her 
face  and  form,  cultivates  her  mind  and  manners,  good- 
naturedly  gives  up  all  pretension,  and  exhibits  in  all 
her  life  a  true  and  a  pure  heart,  will  have  friends 


36  Leffons  in  Life. 

enough  to  compensate  her  entirely  for  the  loss  of  a 
husband.  Friendship  is  unmindful  of  faces,  in  the  se- 
lection of  its  objects,  even  if  love  be  somewhat  particu- 
lar, and,  sometimes,  foolishly  fastidious. 

Life  is  altogether  too  precious  a  gift  to  be  thrown 
away.  A  man  who  would  permit  a  field  to  be  over- 
grown with  weeds  and  thorns  simply  because  it  would 
not  naturally  produce  roses,  would  be  very  foolish, 
particularly  if  the  ground  should  only  need  cultivation 
to  enable  it  to  yield  abundantly  of  corn.  Far  be  it 
from  me  to  depreciate  physical  symmetry  and  personal 
comeliness.  They  are  gifts  of  God,  and  they  are  very 
good  ;  but  there  are  better  things  in  this  world  than  a 
good  face,  and  better  things  than  the  admiration  which 
a  good  face  wins.  I  am  more  and  more  convinced,  as 
the  years  pass  away,  that  the  choicest  thing  this  world 
has  for  a  man  is  affection — not  any  special  variety  of 
affection,  but  the  approval,  the  sympathy,  and  the  devo- 
tion of  true  hearts.  It  is  not  necessary  that  this  affec- 
tion come  from  the  great  and  the  powerful.  If  it  be 
genuine,  that  is  all  the  heart  asks.  It  does  not  criti- 
cize and  graduate  the  value  of  the  fountains  from  which 
it  springs.  It  is  at  these  fountains  particularly  that 
the  unfortunates  of  the  world  are  permitted  to  drink. 
They  have  only  to  accept  cheerfully  the  conditions  of 
their  lot,  and  to  give  free  and  full  play  to  all  that  is 
good  and  generous  in  them,  to  secure  in  an  unusual 


Bodily  Imperfedions  and  Impediments.    37 

degree  the  love  of  those  into  whose  intimate  society 
Providence  has  thrown  them. 

It  is  stated  by  Dr.  Livingstone,  the  celebrated  ex- 
plorer of  Africa,  that  the  blow  of  a  lion's  paw  upon  his 
shoulder,  which  was  so  severe  as  to  break  his  arm, 
completely  annihilated  fear ;  and  he  suggests  that  it  is 
possible  that  Providence  has  mercifully  arranged,  that 
all  those  beasts  that  prey  upon  life  shall  have  power  to 
destroy  the  sting  of  death  in  the  animals  which  are 
their  natural  victims.  I  do  not  believe  that  this  power 
is  mercifully  assigned  to  beasts  of  prey  alone,  but  that 
the  misfortunes  that  assail  our  limbs  and  forms,  in 
whatever  shape  and  at  whatever  time  they  may  come, 
bring  with  them  something  which  lightens  the  blow, 
or  obviates  the  pain,  if  we  will  accept  it.  There  is  a 
calm  consciousness  in  every  soul,  however  harshly  the 
lion's  paw  may  fall  upon  the  body  which  it  inhabits, 
that  it  is  itself  invulnerable — that  whatever  may  be  the 
condition  of  the  body,  the  soul  cannot  be  injured  by 
physical  forms  or  forces. 

Physical  calamity  never  comes  with  the  power  to 
extinguish  that  which  is  essential  to  the  highest  man- 
hood and  womanhood,  and  never  fails  to  bring  with  it 
a  motive  for  the  adjustment  of  the  soul  to  its  condi- 
tions. The  little  boy  whose  "Hail  Columbia"  has 
been  ringing  in  my  ears  all  day,  accepted  the  condi- 
tions of  his  life,  and  the  sting  of  his  calamity  has  de- 


38  Leffons  in  Life. 

parted.  It  is  pleasant  to  say  to  him,  and  to  all  the 
brotherhood  and  sisterhood  of  ugliness  and  lameness, 
that  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  there  is  no 
such  thing  in  heaven  as  a  one-legged  or  a  club-footed 
soul — no  such  thing  as  an  ugly  or  a  misshapen  soul — no 
such  thing  as  a  blind  or  a  deaf  soul — no  such  thing  as  a 
soul  with  tainted  blood  in  its  veins ;  and  that  out  of 
these  imperfect  bodies  will  spring  spirits  of  consum- 
mate perfection  and  angelic  beauty — a  beauty  chas- 
tened and  enriched  by  the  humiliations  that  were 
visited  upon  their  earthly  habitation. 


LESSON  III. 

ANIMAL    CONTENT. 

"By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguiled; 
The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child." 

GOLDSMITH. 

"Ay,  give  me  back  the  joyous  hours 

When  I,  myself,  was  ripening  too; 
When  song,  the  fount,  flung  up  its  showers 
Of  beauty,  ever  fresh  and  new." 

GOETHE'S  FATTST. 

I  HAVE  been  watching  a  family  of  kittens,  engaged 
in  their  exquisitely  graceful  play.  Near  them  lay 
their  mother,  stretched  at  her  length  upon  the  flag- 
ging, taking  her  morning  nap,  and  warming  herself  in 
the  sun.  She  had  eaten  her  breakfast,  (provided  by  no 
care  of  her  own,  but  at  my  expense,)  had  seen  her  lit- 
tle family  fed,  and  having  nothing  further  to  attend  to, 
had  gone  off  into  a  doze.  What  a  blessed  freedom 
from  care  !  Think  of  a  family  of  four  children,  with 
no  frocks  to  be  made  for  them,  no  hair  to  brush,  no 

r 


40  Leflbns  in  Life. 

shoes  to  provide,  no  socks  to  knit  and  mend,  no  school- 
books  to  buy,  and  no  nurse  !  Think  of  a  living  being 
with  the  love  of  offspring  in  her  bosom,  and  a  multi- 
tude of  marvellous  instincts  in  her  nature,  yet  knowing 
nothing  of  God,  thinking  not  of  the  future,  without  a 
hope  or  an  expectation,  or  a  doubt  or  a  fear,  passing 
straight  on  to  annihilation !  At  the  threshold  of  this 
destiny  the  little  kittens  were  carelessly  playing ;  and 
they  are  doubtless  still  playing,  while  I  write.  They 
have  no  lessons  to  learn,  they  do  not  have  to  go  to 
Sunday-school,  they  entertain  no  prejudices,  except 
against  dogs  which  occasionally  dodge  into  the  yard ; 
and  I  judge,  by  the  familiar  way  in  which  they  play 
with  their  mother's  ears,  and  pounce  upon  her  tail,  that 
they  are  not  in  any  degree  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  the 
respect  due  to  a  parent.  Cat  and  kittens  will  eat,  and 
frolic,  and  sleep,  through  their  brief  life,  and  then  they 
will  curl  up  in  some  dark  corner  and  die. 

I  remember  that  in  one  of  the  late  Mr.  Joseph  C. 
Neal's  "  Charcoal  Sketches,"  he  puts  into  the  mouth  of 
a  very  sad  and  seedy  loafer  the  expression  of  a  wish 
that  he  were  a  pig,  and  a  statement  of  the  reasons  for 
the  wish.  These  reasons,  as  I  recall  them,  related  to 
the  freedom  of  the  pig  from  the  peculiar  trials 
and  troubles  of  humanity.  Pigs  do  not  have  to  work 
for  a  living;  they  undertake  no  enterprizes,  and  of 
course  fail  in  none ;  they  eat  and  sleep  through  a  pe- 


Animal  Content.  41 

riod  of  months,  and  then  come  the  knife  and  a  grunt, 
and  that  is  the  last  of  them.  Now  I  suppose  this 
thought  of  Mr.  Neal's  loafer  has  been  shared  by  mil- 
lions of  men.  Not  that  everybody  has  at  some  time  in 
his  life  wished  he  were  a  pig,  but  that  nearly  every- 
body who  has  bad  his  share  of  the  troubles  and  respon- 
sibilities of  life,  has  looked  upon  simple  animal  care- 
lessness and  content  with  a  certain  degree  of  envy.  It 
is  not  necessary  to  go  among  brutes  for  instances  of 
this  animal  content.  It  can  be  found  among  men. 
"Who  does  not  know  good-natured,  ignorant,  healthy 
fellows,  who  will  work  all  day  in  the  field,  whistle  all 
the  way  homeward,  eat  hugely  of  course  food,  sleep 
like  logs,  and  take  no  more  interest  in  the  great  ques- 
tions which  agitate  the  most  of  us,  than  the  pigs  they 
feed,  and  that,  in  return,  feed  them  ?  Who  has  not 
sighed,  as  he  has  seen  how  easily  the  simple  wants  of 
certain  simple  natures  are  supplied  ?  I  remember  an 
old  man  who  quite  unexpectedly  was  drafted  into  the 
grand  jury,  which  sat  in  the  county  town  less  than  ten 
miles  distant  from  his  home ;  and  this  was  the  great 
event  of  his  life.  He  never  tired  of  talking  about  it — 
(never  tired  himself,  I  mean,)  and  a  stranger  could  not 
carry  on  a  conversation  with  him  for  five  minutes,  with- 
out hearing  of  something  which  occurred  when  "I 
was  in  Blanktown,  on  the  Grand  Jury."  It  is  doubt- 
ful whether  Napoleon  ever  contemplated  a  victory  with 


42  Leffons  in  Life. 

the  complacent  satisfaction  that  filled  my  old  friend 
when  he  alluded  to  his  connection  with  "  the  grand 
jury,"  and  emphasized  the  adjective  which  magnified 
the  jury  and  glorified  him. 

I  confess  that,  when  I  pass  through  a  rural  town, 
and  see  the  laborers  among  the  corn,  and  the  boys 
driving  their  cattle,  and  the  girls  busy  in  the  dairies, 
and  life  passing  away  quietly,  I  cannot  avoid  a  twinge 
of  regret  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  be  con- 
tent with  the  kind  of  life  that  I  see  around  me,  espe- 
cially as  I  know  that  there  is  one  kind  of  pleasure — 
negative,  perhaps,  rather  than  positive — which  that  kind 
of  life  enjoys,  and  in  which  I  can  never  share.  Relief 
from  great  responsibilities,  and  contentment  with  hum- 
ble clothing,  humble  fare,  humble  society,  humble  aims 
and  ambitions,  humble  means  and  humble  labors — ah  ! 
how  many  weary,  overloaded  men — how  many  disap- 
pointed hearts — have  sighed  for  such  a  boon,  and 
sighed  knowing  they  could  never  receive  it. 

It  has  been  the  habit  of  poets  to  surround  simple 
pleasures  and  pursuits  with  the  golden  atmosphere  of 
romance, — not  because  they  would  enjoy  such  pleas- 
ures and  pursuits  at  all,  but  rather  because  they  are 
forever  beyond  their  possession.  A  poet  is  always 
reaching  toward  the  unattainable,  and  he  may  reach 
forward  to  the  perfections  of  a  life  of  which  the  best 
that  he  sees  around  him  is  an  intimation,  or  backward 


Animal  Content.  43 

to  the  animal  content  of  a  life  as  yet  undisturbed  by 
the  intimation  of  something  better.  Bucolics  are  very 
sweet,  but  their  writers  do  not  believe  in  them.  "  A 
nut-brown  maid,"  with  bare,  unconscious  feet  and  an- 
cles, is  very  pretty  in  a  picture,  but  the  man  who 
painted  her  ascertained  that  she  was  green,  and  not 
the  most  entertaining  of  companions.  The  truth  is, 
that  when  we  have  got  along  so  far  that  we  can  per- 
ceive that  which  is  poetical  and  picturesque  in  the  sim- 
plest form  of  rustic  life,  we  have  got  too  far  along  to 
enjoy  it. 

I  suppose  that  much  of  the  charm  which  simple  ani- 
mal content  has  for  us,  is  connected  with  the  memories 
of  childhood.  "We  can  all  recall  a  period  of  our  lives 
when  there  was  joy  in  the  consciousness  of  living — • 
when  animal  life,  in  its  spontaneous  overflow,  flooded 
all  our  careless  hours  with  its  own  peculiar  pleasure. 
The  light  was  pleasant  to  our  eyes,  vigorous  appetite 
and  digestion  made  ambrosia  of  the  homeliest  fare,  the 
simplest  play  brought  delight,  and  life — all  untried — • 
lay  spread  out  before  us  in  one  long,  golden  dream. 
We  now  watch  our  children  at  their  sports,  and  see 
but  little  difference  between  their  sources  of  happiness 
and  those  which  supply  the  kittens  in  their  play. 
"Pleased  with  a  rattle,  tickled  with  a  straw,"  they 
skip  from  pleasure  to  pleasure,  and  find  delight  in  the 
impulsive  exercise  of  their  little  powers.  "We  were 


44  Leffons  in  Life. 

once  like  them.  Lite  was  once  as  fresh,  and  flowing, 
and  impulsive,  and  objectless,  as  it  is  with  them ;  and 
when  we  are  weary  and  oppressed  with  labor,  and  load- 
ed down  with  responsibility,  and  filled  with  thoughts 
of  the  great  destiny  before  us,  we  turn  our  eyes  back- 
ward with  a  sigh  for  days  once  ours,  but  lost  forever. 
Lost  forever !  This  is  the  romantic  pain  that  fills  us 
in  all  our  contemplations  of  simple  animal  content.  It 
is  lost  to  us,  because  we  are  lost  to  it.  Like  a  passen- 
ger far  out  iipon  the  sea,  adventuring  upon  a  long 
voyage,  we  look  back  upon  the  fading  hills  of  our  na- 
tive land,  and  sigh  to  think  that  the  breeze  which 
bears  us  away  can  never  bring  us  back. 

The  question  comes  to  us :  "  What  is  there  in  our 
present  life  to  repay  us  for  this  loss  ? "  There  are 
multitudes  who  can  ask  this  question,  and  answer  hon- 
estly, "Nothing."  It  is  sad,  but  true,  that  countless 
men  and  women  have  never  found  any  thing  in  life 
which  compensates  them  for  the  loss  of  the  simple  ani- 
mal enjoyment  and  content  of  childhood.  Sickness, 
perhaps,  has  imposed  upon  them  years  of  pain.  Pov- 
erty has  condemned  them  to  labor  through  every  wak- 
ing hour  to  win  sustenance  for  themselves  and  their 
dependents.  The  heart  has  been  cheated  of  its  idol. 
Friends  have  proved  false,  and  fortune  fickle.  Life 
has  gone  wrong  through  all  the  avenues  of  their  being. 
Yet  there  are  others  who,  while  looking  with  pleasure 


Animal  Content  45 

upon  the  innocent  sports  of  animal  life,  and  recalling 
the  simple  j  oys  of  childhood  with  delight,  are  content 
with  the  lot  of  manhood  and  womanhood,  and  would 
look  upon  a  return  to  their  simpler  age  as  the  great- 
est calamity  that  could  be  inflicted  upon  them.  With 
brows  wrinkled  by  care  and  toil,  and  heads  silvered 
by  premature  age,  and  great  burdens  upon  heart  and 
brain,  they  glory  in  a  life  within  and  before  them,  by 
the  side  of  which  the  life  of  childhood  is  as  flavorless 
and  frivolous  as  that  of  a  fly. 

I  have  been  much  impressed  by  a  passage  in  the 
"Recreations  of  a  Country  Parson," — which,  by  the 
way,  is  one  of  the  best  and  cleverest  books  of  its  kind 
in  the  English  language — in  which  this  question  is 
incidentally  touched  upon,  and  so  happily  touched 
upon,  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  transcribing  the  whole 
passage.  The  writer  represents  himself  to  be  seated 
upon  a  manger,  writing  upon  the  flat  place  between  his 
horse's  eyes,  while  the  docile  animal's  nose  is  between 
his  knees ;  and  it  is  the  horse  that  he  addresses : — 

"  For  you,  my  poor  fellow-creature,  I  think  with  sorrow  as  I  write 
here  upon  your  head,  there  remains  no  such  immortality  as  remains 
for  me.  What  a  difference  between  us !  You  to  your  sixteen  or 
eighteen  years  here,  and  then  oblivion  ! — I  to  my  threescore  and  ten, 
and  then  eternity !  Yes,  the  difference  is  immense ;  and  it  touches 
me  to  think  of  your  life  and  mine,  of  your  doom  and  mine.  I  know 
a  house  where  at  morning  and  evening  prayer,  when  the  household 
assembles,  among  the  servants  there  always  walks  in  a  shaggy  little 
dog,  who  listens  with  the  deepest  attention  and  the  most  solemn  gravity 


46  Leffons  in  Life. 

to  all  that  is  said,  and  then,  when  prayers  are  over,  goes  out  again 
with  his  friends.  I  cannot  witness  that  silent  procedure  without  being 
much  moved  by  the  sight.  Ah !  my  fellow-creature,  this  is  something 
in  which  you  have  no  part !  Made  by  the  same  hand,  breathing  the 
same  air,  sustained  like  us  by  food  and  drink,  you  are  witnessing  an 
act  of  ours  which  relates  to  interests  that  do  not  concern  you,  and  of 
which  you  have  no  idea.  And  so  here  we  are,  you  standing  at  the 
manger,  old  boy,  and  I  sitting  upon  it ;  the  mortal  and  the  immortal, 
close  together ;  your  nose  on  my  knee,  my  paper  on  your  head ;  yet 
with  something  between  us  broader  than  the  broad  Atlantic." 

Here  we  find  one  man  pitying  his  poor,  dumb, 
unconscious  companion,  and  the  little  dog  that  trots 
in  to  attend  the  morning  prayers,  because  their  life  is 
so  brief,  and,  more  particularly,  because  it  is  so  insig- 
nificant. He  recognizes  the  feeble  likeness  between 
himself  and  them,  and  appreciates  also  the  tremendous 
difference.  He  does  not  think  that  he  would  be  glad 
to  exchange  his  lot  of  labor  and  care  for  their  careless- 
ness and  content,  but,  reaching  forward  to  grasp  the 
hand  of  an  immortal  destiny,  he  sorrows  that  he  must 
leave  his  dumb  servants  and  companions  behind  him. 

And  this  is  the  normal  view  of  the  question.  We 
rise  out  of  semi-conscious  infancy  into  a  life  of  the 
senses,  which  goes  on  to  perfection  in  our  childhood. 
We  come  into  a  state  in  which  the  mechanism  of  the 
body  enjoys  its  freest  play,  in  which  the  senses  imbibe 
their  sweetest  satisfactions,  and  in  which  life  either 
swells  into  irrepressible  overflowings,  or  subsides  into 
careless  content.  Looking  at  her  children  at  this 


Animal  Content. 


47 


period  of  their  life,  many  a  mother  has  said,  "  Let  them 
play  while  they  can ;  let  them  be  merry  while  they 
may ;  for  they  are  seeing  their  happiest  days."  But 
this  animal  life  is  not  all.  In  its  perfection  it  is  very 
beautiful,  and  it  is  good  because  God  made  it ;  but  it 
is  only  the  coarse  basis  upon  which  rises  a  shaft,  whiter 
than  marble — wrought  with  divine  devices — crowned 
by  the  light  of  Heaven.  It  is  only  those  who  have 
failed  to  secure  a  distinct  perception  of  the  highest 
aspect  of  human  life,  and  of  that  which  makes  it  char- 
acteristically human  life,  who  can  say  to  a  child  that 
he  is  seeing  his  happiest  days. 

I  remember  with  entire  distinctness  the  moment 
when  the  consciousness  possessed  me  that  my  child- 
hood was  transcended  by  initial  manhood,  and  I  can 
never  forget  the  pang  that  moment  brought  me.  It 
was  on  a  bright,  moonlight  night,  in  midwinter,  when 
my  mates,  boisterous  with  life,  were  engaged  in  their 
usual  games  in  the  snow,  and  I  had  gone  out  expecting 
to  share  in  their  enjoyment.  I  had  not  played,  or 
rather  tried  to  play,  five  minutes,  before  I  found  that 
there  was  nothing  in  the  play  for  me — that  I  had  abso- 
lutely exhausted  play  as  the  grand  pursuit  of  my  life. 
Never  since  has  the  wild  laugh  of  boyhood  sounded  so 
vacant  and  hollow,  as  it  did  to  me  that  night.  In  an 
instant,  the  invisible  line  was  crossed  which  separated 
a  life  of  purely  animal  enjoyment  from  a  life  of  moral 


48  Leffons  in  Life. 

motive  and  responsibility,  and  intellectual  action  and 
enterprise.  The  old  had  passed  away,  and  I  had 
entered  that  which  was  new ;  and  I  turned  my  steps 
homeward,  leaving  behind  me  ah1  my  companions,  to 
spend  a  quiet  evening  in  the  chimney-corner,  and  dream 
of  the  realm  that  was  opening  before  me.  Such  a 
moment  as  this  comes  really,  though  not  always  con- 
sciously, to  every  man  and  woman.  To-day  we  are 
children ;  to-morrow  we  are  not.  To-day  we  stand 
in  life's  vestibule ;  to-morrow  we  are  in  the  temple, 
awed  by  the  sweep  of  the  arches  over  us,  humbled  by 
the  cross  that  fronts  us,  and  smitten  with  mysteries 
that  breathe  upon  us  from  the  choir,  or  gaze  at  us  from 
the  flaming  windows. 

Manhood  and  womanhood  have"  their  infancy  en- 
tirely distinct  from  the  infancy  of  childhood.  The 
child  is  born  into  the  world  a  simple,  animal  life — less 
helpful  than  a  lamb,  or  a  calf,  or  a  kitten.  There  is  no 
power  in  it,  imd  but  little  of  instinct.  There  is  no 
form  of  life,  bursting  caul  or  shell,  that  awakes  in  vital 
air  to  such  stupid,  vacant  helplessness,  as  a  baby.  It  is 
out  of  this  lump  of  clay,  with  its  bones  only  half  hard- 
ened, and  its  muscles  little  more  than  pulp,  and  its 
brain  no  more  intelligent  than  an  uncooked  dumpling, 
that  childhood  is  to  be  made.  And  this  childhood  con- 
sists of  little  more  than  a  well-developed  animal  organ- 
ism. Nature  keeps  the  child  playing — makes  it  play 


Animal  Content.  49 

in  the  open  air — impels  it  to  bring  into  free  and  joyous 
use  all  the  powers  of  its  little  frame — and  when  that  is 
done,  and  the  procreative  faculty  has  crowned  all,  the 
child  is  born  again,  and  comes  into  a  new  infancy — the 
infancy  of  manhood  and  womanhood.  Here  a  new  life 
opens.  That  which  gave  satisfaction  before,  gives  sat- 
isfaction no  longer.  Love  takes  new  and  deeper  chan- 
nels. Ambition  fixes  its  eye  upon  other  and  higher 
objects.  Fresh  motives  address  the  soul,  and  urge  it 
into  new  enterprises.  Great  cares  and  responsibilities 
settle  slowly  down  upon  its  shoulders,  and  it  braces 
itself  up  to  endure  them.  It  apprehends  God  and  its 
relations  to  Ham,  and  to  its  fellows ;  it  confronts  des- 
tiny ;  it  arms  itself  for  the  conflicts  of  life  ;  it  prepares 
for  the  struggle  which  it  knows  will  issue  in  a  grateful 
success  or  a  sad  disappointment ;  in  short,  it  grows 
from  man's  infancy  into  man's  full  estate. 

Now  the  reason  why  a  mother  looks  with  a  sigh 
upon  her  children,  and  says  that  they  are  seeing  the 
happiest  days  of  their  life,  is  that  she  has  never  become 
a  true  woman.  She  has  never  grown  out  of  the  infancy 
of  her  womanhood.  She  has  never  comprehended  what 
a  glorious  thing  it  is  to  be  a  woman — she  has  not  com- 
prehended what  it  is  to  be  a  woman  at  all.  What  can 
be  that  woman's  ideas  of  life,  who  thinks  and  declares 
that  the  happiest  moments  of  her  experience  were  those 
which  were  filled  with  the  frolic  of  animal  life  ?  If  I 
3 


50  Leffons  in  Life. 

felt  like  this,  I  should  wish  that  my  children  had  been 
born  rabbits,  or  squirrels,  or  lambs,  or  kittens,  because 
they,  having  enjoyed  the  pleasures  of  the  animal,  will 
never  awake  to  the  woes  of  another  type  of  life.  The 
real  reason  why  any  man  sings  from  the  heart, 

"0,  would  I  were  a  boy  again," 

is,  that  he  is  "  stuck" — to  use  a  homely  but  expressive 
word — between  boyhood  and  manhood,  and,  not  feel- 
ing up  to  his  position,  has  a  very  strong  disposition  to 
back  out  of  it.  The  man  who  really  wishes  he  were  a 
boy,  is  either  painfully  conscious  of  the  loss  of  the  purity 
of  his  boyhood,  or  he  has  the  cowardly  disposition  to 
shirk  the  responsibilities  of  his  life.  The  romantic 
regard  which  we  all  entertain  for  the  simple  animal 
content  and  joy  of  childhood,  is  a  very  different  thing 
to  this.  It  was  Mr.  Neal's  loafer  that  really  wished  he 
were  a  pig  ;  and  it  is  a  loafer  always  who  would  retire 
from  man's  duties  and  estate,  into  the  content  either 
of  childhood  or  kittenhood. 

It  is  very  natural  that  a  man  should  be  blinded  and 
pained  by  passing  from  a  shaded  room  into  dazzling 
sunlight.  It  is  a  serious  thing  to  leap  from  a  luxurious, 
enervating  warm  bath  into  cold  water.  All  sudden 
transitions  are  shocking ;  and  God  has  contrived  the 
transitions  of  our  lives  so  that  they  shall  be  mainly 
gradual.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  many  men 


Animal  Content.  51 

and  women,  by  having  the  responsibilities  of  men  and 
women  thrust  upon  them  too  early,  are  shocked,  and 
look  back  upon  the  shady  places  they  have  left,  and 
long  to  rest  their  eyes  there.  It  is  not  strange  that 
men  recoil  from  a  plunge  into  the  world's  cold  waters, 
and  long  to  creep  back  into  the  bath  from  which  they 
have  suddenly  risen.  But  that  man  or  woman,  having 
fully  passed  into  the  estate  of  man  and  woman,  should 
desire  to  become  children  again,  is  impossible.  It  is 
only  the  half-developed,  the  badly-developed,  the  im- 
perfectly nurtured,  the  mean-spirited,  and  the  demor- 
alized, who  look  back  to  the  innocence,  the  helpless- 
ness, and  the  simple  animal  joy  and  content  of  childhood 
with  genuine  regret  for  their  loss.  I  want  no  better 
evidence  that  a  person's  life  is  regarded  by  himself  as 
a  failure,  than  that  furnished  by  his  honest  willingness 
to  be  restored  to  his  childhood.  When  a  man  is  ready 
to  relinquish  the  power  of  his  mature  reason,  his  strength 
and  skill  for  self-support,  the  independence  of  his  will 
and  life,  his  bosom  companion  and  children,  his  interest 
in  the  stirring  affairs  of  his  time,  his  part  in  deciding 
the  great  questions  which  agitate  his  age  and  nation, 
his  intelligent  apprehension  of  the  relations  which  exist 
between  himself  and  his  Maker,  and  his  rational  hope 
of  immortality — if  he  have  one — for  the  negative 
animal  content,  and  frivolous  enjoyments  of  a  child, 
he  does  not  deserve  the  name  of  a  man ; — he  is  a 


52  Leffons  in  Life. 

weak,  unhealthy,  broken-down  creature,  or  a  base  pol- 
troon. 

Yet  I  know  there  are  those  who  will  read  this  sen- 
tence with  tears,  and  with  complaint.  I  know  there 
are  those  whose  existence  has  been  a  long  struggle  with 
sickness  and  trial — whose  lives  have  been  crowded  with 
great  griefs  and  disappointments — who  sit  in  darkness 
and  impotency  while  the  world  rolls  by  them.  They 
have  seen  no  joy  and  felt  no  content  since  childhood, 
and  many  of  them  look  with  genuine  pity  upon  children, 
because  the  careless  creatures  do  not  know  into  what 
a  heritage  of  sin  and  sorrow  they  are  entering.  I  have 
only  to  say  to  them,  that  the  noblest  exhibitions  of  man- 
hood and  womanhood  I  have  ever  seen,  or  the  world 
has  ever  seen,  have  been  among  their  number.  A 
woman  with  the  hope  of  heaven  in  her  eyes,  incor- 
ruptible virtue  in  her  heart,  and  honesty  in  every 
endeavor,  has  smiled  serenely,  a  million  times  in  this 
world,  while  her  life  and  all  its  earthly  expectations 
were  in  ruins.  Patient  sufferers  upon  beds  of  pain 
have  forgotten  childhood  years  ago,  and,  feeding  their 
souls  on  prayer,  have  looked  forward  with  unutterable 
joy  to  the  transition  from  womanhood  to  angelhood. 
Men,  utterly  forsaken  by  friends — contemned,  derided, 
proscribed,  persecuted — have  stood  by  their  convic- 
tions with  joyful  heroism  and  calm  content.  Nay, 
great  multitudes  have  marched  with  songs  upon  their 


Animal  Content.  53 

tongues  to  the  rack  and  the  stake.  The  noblest  spec- 
tacle the  world  affords  is  that  of  a  man  or  woman, 
rising  superior  to  sorrow  and  suffering — transforming 
sorrow  and  suffering  into  nutriment — accepting  those 
conditions  of  their  life  which  Providence  prescribes, 
and  building  themselves  up  into  an  estate  from  whose 
summit  the  step  is  short  to  a  glorified  humanity. 

Before  me  hangs  the  portrait  of  an  old  man — the 
only  man  I  ever  loved  with  a  devotion  that  has  never 
faded,  though  long  years  have  passed  away  since  he 
died.  His  calm  blue  eyes  look  down  upon  me,  and  I 
look  into  them,  and  through  them  I  look  into  a  golden 
memory — into  a  life  of  self-denial — into  a  meek,  toiling, 
honest,  heroic  Christian  manhood — into  an  uncomplain- 
ing spirit — into  a  grateful  heart — into  a  soul  that  never 
sighed  over  a  lost  joy,  though  all  his  earthly  enterprises 
miscarried.  The  tracery  of  care  and  of  sickness  is  upon 
his  haggard  features,  but  I  see  in  them,  and  in  the  soul 
which  they  represent  to  me,  the  majesty  of  manliness. 
While  I  look,  the  kittens  still  play  at  the  door,  and  the 
noise  of  shouting  children  is  in  the  street ;  but  ah !  how 
shallow  is  the  life  they  represent,  compared  with  that 
of  which  this  dumb  canvas  tells  me  !  It  is  better  to  be 
a  man  or  a  woman,  than  to  be  a  child.  It  is  better  to 
be  an  angel  than  to  be  either.  Let  us  look  forward — 
never  backward.  ;. 


LESSON  IV. 

KEPKODUCTION   IN   KIND. 

"  Whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall  he  also  reap." 

ST.  PAUL  TO  THB  GALATIANS. 

"  Ye  shall  know  them  by  their  fruits :  Do  men  gather  grapes  of  thorns,  or 
figs  of  thistles?" — ST.  MATTHEW'S  GOSPEL.  • 

IT  was  fitting  that  one  of  the  most  characteristic  and 
beautiful  laws  of  life  should  be  announced  in  the 
opening  chapter  of  the  Holy  Bible.  It  was  clothed  in 
the  form  of  an  ordinance,  as  became  it :  "Let  the  earth 
bring  forth  the  living  creature  after  his  kind,  and  every 
thing  that  creepeth  upon  the  earth,  after  his  kind." 
From  that  day  to  this,  every  living  thing — beast,  bird 
and  insect,  tree,  shrub  and  plant — has  produced  after 
its  kind.  It  is  a  law  that  runs  through  all  animal  and 
vegetable  life.  Each  family  in  the  great  world  of  living 
forms  was  created  for  a  special  purpose,  and  was  intended 
to  remain  pure  and  distinctive  until  the  termination  of 


Reproduction  in  Kind.  55 

its  mission.  "Whenever  the  family  boundaries  are  over- 
stepped, the  curse  of  nature  is  breathed  upon  the  gen- 
erative functions,  and  the  illegitimate  product  dies  out, 
or  subsides  into  hopeless  degeneration.  The  mule  is  a 
monster,  and  has  no  progeny. 

A  plant,  or  a  tree,  never  forgets  itself.  Cheat  it  of 
its  root,  and  the  stem  remains  faithful.  The  minutest 
twig,  put  out  to  nurse  upon  the  arm  of  a  foreign 
mother,  feels  the  thrill  of  the  great  primal  law  in  its 
filmiest  fibre,  and  breathes  in  every  expression  of  its 
life  its  fidelity.  If  you  will  walk  with  me  into  the 
garden,  I  will  show  you  a  mountain-ash  in  full  bloom ; 
but  on  the  top  of  it  you  will  see  a  strange  little  cluster 
of  pear-blossoms.  A  twig  from  a  Seckel  pear-tree  was, 
two  or  three  years  since,  engrafted  there.  It  had  a 
hard  time  in  uniting  its  being  to  that  of  the  alien  ash, 
but  it  loved  life,  and  so,  at  length,  it  consented  to  join 
itself  to  the  transplanted  forest  tree.  It  was  weak  and 
alone,  but  it  kept  its  law.  Spring  bathed  the  ash  with 
its  own  peculiar  bloom,  and  autumn  hung  it  with  its 
clusters  of  scarlet  berries,  and  it  was  hidden  from  sight 
by  the  redundant  foliage,  but  it  kept  its  law.  The 
roots  of  the  mountain-ash,  blindly  reaching  in  the 
ground  and  imbibing  its  juices,  knew  nothing  of  the 
little  orphaned  twig  above,  that  waited  for  its  food  ;  but 
they  could  not  cheat  it  of  its  law.  Up  to  a  certain 
point  of  a  certain  bough  the  rising  fluids  came  under 


56  Leffons  in  Life. 

the  law  of  the  mountain-ash,  and  there  they  found  a 
gateway,  guarded  by  an  angel  that  gave  them  a  new 
commandment.  "  Thus  far — mountain-ash  :  beyond — 
Seckel  pear  ; "  and  if,  in  October,  you  will  walk  in  the 
garden  again  with  me,  I  will  show  you  among  the 
scarlet  berries,  bending  heavily  toward  you,  the  clus- 
tered succulence  of  the  Seckel. 

A  seedsman  may  cheat  you,  but  a  seed  never  does. 
If  you  plant  corn,  it  never  comes  up  potatoes.  If  you 
sow  wheat,  it  never  comes  up  rye.  Wrapped  up  in 
every  capsule,  bound  up  in  every  kernel,  packed  into 
every  minutest  germ,  is  this  law,  written  by  God  at  the 
beginning,  "Produce  thou  after  thy  kind."  So  the 
whole  living  world  goes  on  producing  after  its  kind. 
Year  after  year  we  visit  the  seedsman,  and  read  the 
labels  on  his  di'awers  and  packages,  and  bear  home  and 
plant  in  our  gardens  the  little  homely  germs  that  keep 
God's  law  so  well ;  and  summer  rewards  our  trust  in 
them  with  beautiful  flowers,  and  autumn  with  bounti- 
ful fruition.  Robins  sang  the  same  song  to  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers  that  they  sing  to  us.  The  may-flower  breathes 
the  same  fragrance  now  that  it  breathed  in  the  fingers 
of  Rose  Standish;  and  man  and  woman,  producing 
after  their  kind,  are  the  same  to-day  that  they  were 
three  thousand  years  ago. 

!N"ow  there  is  a  significance  in  all  the  laws  of  material 
life,  above  and  beyond  their  special  office.  They  do  the 


Reproduction  in  Kind.  57 

work  they  were  set  to  do  ;  they  rule  the  life  they  were 
appointed  to  rule  ;  but  the  laws,  themselves,  belong  to  a 
family  whose  branches  run  through  all  intellectual,  moral, 
and  spiritual  life.  Laws  live  in  groups  no  less  uniformly 
than  the  existences  which  they  inform  and  govern. 
It  is  a  law,  both  of  animal  and  vegetable  structures, 
that  they  shall  grow  by  what  they  feed  on  ;  but  this 
law  passes  the  bounds  of  matter,  and  finds  its  widest 
meaning  and  its  most  extended  application  beyond. 
The  mind  grows  by  what  it  feeds  on  ;  the  heart  grows 
by  what  it  feeds  on ;  love,  hate,  jealousy,  revenge, 
fortitude,  courage,  grow  by  what  they  feed  on ;  spiritu- 
ality grows  by  what  spirituality  feeds  on.  Wherever 
growth  goes,  through  all  the  realm  of  God,  this  law 
goes ;  and  the  law  that  every  thing  that  produces  shall 
produce  after  its  kind,  is  just  as  universal  as  this.  It 
begins  in  material  life,  and  runs  up  through  all  life. 
Rather,  perhaps,  I  should  say,  that  it  begins  in  spiritual 
life,  and  seeks  embodiment  in  material  life,  so  that  we 
may  apprehend  it.  The  clouds  were  in  heaven  before 
there  was  any  rain,  and  the  rain  comes  down  from 
heaven  to  tell  us  what  the  clouds  are  made  of.  I  might 
go  further,  and  say  that  every  form  of  matter  is  but 
the  embodiment  of  a  divine  thought,  and*  that,  with 
that  thought,  there  passes  into  matter  the  laws  that 
reside  in  divine  things  of  corresponding  nature  and 
office. 

3* 


58  Leffons  in  Life. 

But  I  am  becoming  abstruse — quite  too  much  so, 
considering  the  simple,  practical  truths  to  which  I  am 
seeking  to  introduce  my  reader.  I  have  been  thinking 
how,  in  accordance  with  this  law  of  which  we  are  talk- 
ing, our  moods,  our  passions,  our  sympathies,  our  moral 
frames  and  conditions,  reproduce  themselves,  after  their 
kind,  in  the  minds  and  lives  around  us.  I  call  my  child 
to  my  knee  in  anger ;  I  strike  him  a  hasty  blow  that 
carries  with  it  the  peculiar  sting  of  anger ;  I  speak  a 
loud  reproof  that  bears  with  it  the  spirit  of  anger ;  and 
I  look  in  vain  for  any  relenting  in  his  flashing  eyes, 
flushed  face,  and  compressed  lips.  I  have  made  my 
child  angry,  and  my  uncontrolled  passion  has  produced 
after  its  kind.  I  have  sown  anger,  and  I  have  reaped 
anger  instantaneously.  Perhaps  I  become  still  more 
angry,  in  consequence  of  the  passion  manifested  by  my 
child,  and  I  speak  and  strike  again.  He  is  weak  and  I 
am  strong ;  but,  though  he  bow  his  head,  crushed  into 
silence,  I  may  be  sure  that  there  is  a  sullen  heart  in  the 
little  bosom,  and  anger  the  more  bitter  because  it  is 
impotent.  I  put  the  child  away  from  me,  and  think  of 
what  I  have  done.  I  am  full  of  relentings.  I  long  to 
ask  his  pardon,  for  I  know  that  I  have  offended  and 
deeply  injured  one  of  Christ's  little  ones.  I  call  him  to 
me  again,  press  his  head  to  my  breast,  kiss  him,  and 
weep.  No  word  is  spoken,  but  the  little  bosom  heaves, 
the  little  heart  softens,  the  little  eyes  grow  tenderly 


Reproduction  in  Kind.  59 

penitent,  the  little  hands  come  up  and  clasp  my  neck, 
and  my  relentings  and  my  sorrow  have  produced  after 
their  kind.  The  child  is  conquered,  and  so  am  I. 

If  I  utter  fretful  words,  they  come  back  to  me  like 
echoes.  If  I  bristle  all  over  with  irritability,  the  quills 
will  begin  to  rise  all  about  me.  One  thoroughly  ir- 
ritable person  in  a  breakfast-room  spoils  coffee  and 
toast,  sours  milk,  and  destroys  appetite  for  a  whole 
family.  He  produces  after  his  kind. 

Generally,  a  man  has  around  him  those  who  are  like 
him.  If  he  be  a  man  of  strong  nature  and  positive 
qualities,  he  will  plant  his  moods  and  grow  them  in  the 
natures  next  to  him.  Of  course  there  must  be  excep- 
tions to  this  rule,  because  the  will  is  free  and  man  is 
reasonable,  and  the  motive  and  power  to  pluck  up  un- 
welcome seed,  and  unpleasant  growths,  inheres  in  all 
men.  I  have  known  a  good-natured  man  to  live  with  a 
pettish,  ill-natured,  jealous,  fault-finding  wife  through  all 
the  years  of  my  acquaintance  with  him,  he  meantime 
growing  no  worse,  and  she  growing  no  better.  They 
had  voluntarily  and  effectually  shut  themselves  each 
from  the  influence  of  the  other.  He  had  closed  his 
spirit  against  that  which  was  bad  in  her,  and  she  had 
closed  her  spirit  against  that  which  was  good  in  him ;  so 
she  went  on  fretting  through  life,  and  he  very  good- 
naturedly  laughing  at  her.  We  see  this  thing  through 
all  society.  We  see  innocent  girls  grow  up  into  virtue, 


60  Leffons  in  Life. 

though  surrounded  on  every  side  by  vicious  example. 
"We  see  natures  and  characters  everywhere  which  refuse 
to  receive  the  seed  that  falls  upon  them  from  the  natures 
and  characters  of  others ;  but  this  makes  nothing  against 
the  universality  of  the  law  we  are  considering.  Gen- 
erally, I  repeat,  a  man  has  around  him  those  who  are 
like  him.  The  soil  of  a  social  circle  is  usually  open,  and 
whatever  falls  into  it  produces  after  its  kind,  whether  it 
be  good  nature  or  ill  nature,  purity  or  impurity,  faith  or 
skepticism,  love  or  hate. 

It  would  appear,  therefore,  that  there  is  no  way  by 
which  we  can  surround  ourselves  by  good  society  so 
readily  as  by  being  good  ourselves.  If  we  plant  good 
seed,  we  may  calculate  with  a  great  degree  of  certainty 
upon  securing  good  fruit.  If  I  plant  frankness  and 
open-heartedness,  I  expect  to  reap  them ;  and  I  have 
no  right  to  expect  to  reap  them  unless  I  plant  them. 
If  I  go  to  a  man  with  my  heart  in  my  hand,  I  have 
good  reason  for  expecting  to  meet  a  man  with  his 
heart  in  his  hand.  Frankness  begets  frankness,  just  as 
naturally  and  just  as  certainly,  under  the  proper  condi- 
tions, as  like  produces  like  in  the  animal  and  vegetable 
kingdoms.  There  are  men  who  do  every  thing  by  in- 
direction ;  who  meet  one  as  warily  as  if  words  were 
traps ;  and  pitfalls  who  manage  a  friendly  interview  as 
a  general  would  manage  a  campaign  ;  and  if  they  make 
their  demonstration  first,  we  are  placed  upon  our  guard. 


Reprodu&ion  in  Kind.  61 

We  unconsciously  become  wary  and  distrustful.  They 
plant  distrust  and  secretiveness,  and  they  produce  in  us 
after  their  kind.  No  man  can  be  treated  frankly  in 
this  world  unless  he  himself  be  frank.  If  we  would 
win  confidence  to  ourselves,  we  must  put  confidence  in 
others.  The  soul  is  like  a  mirror,  reflecting  that  which 
stands  before  it. 

The  young  naturally  take  on  the  moods  and  accept 
and  reflect  the  influences  around  them  more  readily 
than  the  old,  just  as  a  new  piece  of  land  will  produce  a 
better  crop  than  one  .which  is  worn  or  pre-occupied.  A 
virgin  mind  is  like  a  virgin  soil.  It  contains  all  the 
elements  of  fertility,  and  is  adapted  to  the  production 
of  any  crop.  It  has  been  exhausted  in  no  department 
of  its  constitution.  It  is  not  occupied  by  roots,  and 
shaded  by  foliage.  It  is  not  turf-bound  and  dry  ;  but 
it  is  soft  and  open,  and  clean  and  moist,  and  ready  for 
the  reception  of  any  seed  that  may  fall  upon  it.  Until 
age  brings  individuality,  the  mind  seems  to  have  little 
choice  as  to  what  it  will  receive.  Then,  indeed,  it  does 
reject  much  seed  that  falls  upon  it,  and  much  fails  to 
take  root  because  of  the  pre-occupation  of  the  surface. 
A  sensual  seed  is  planted  in  the  soul  of  a  young  man, 
and  it  springs  up  readily,  and  produces  after  its  kind ; 
but  the  same  seed  tossed  upon  an  older  soil  fails  to 
sink  and  germinate,  because  the  surface  is  pre-occupied, 
or,  more  frequently,  because  that  peculiar  element  on 


62  Leffons  in  Life. 

which  the  germ  must  rely  for  quickening  and  sustenta- 
tion  has  been  exhausted.  Some  manly  or  Christian 
grace  falls  upon  a  young  mind,  and  quickly  strikes  root 
and  rises  into  flower  and  fruit,  while  the  same  grace 
thrown  upon  an  adult  mind  would  fail  to  reach  the  soil, 
through  the  vices  that  cumber  and  choke  it.  It  is  thus 
that  home  and  the  school-room  are  literally  seminai'ies 
— places  where  seed  is  sown — and  it  is  in  these  that 
we  expect  and  intend  that  every  seed  shah1  produce 
after  its  kind.  Let  us  talk  about  this  a  little. 

I  once  heard  a  person  say  that  one  of  his  acquaint- 
ances, whom  he  named,  had  no  moral  right  to  have  a 
child.  Why  was  this  harsh  judgment  uttered  ?  Be- 
cause he  was  hereditarily  scrofulous,  and  would  neces- 
sarily entail  upon  his  offspring  the  family  taint.  If 
there  were  even  a  show  of  justice  in  this,  what  must 
be  said  of  a  parent  who  does  not  possess  a  single  moral 
quality,  that  even  he,  in  the  selfishness  of  his  parental 
love,  would  desire  to  see  implanted  in  his  child  ?  How 
many  homes  are  scattered  over  Christendom  in  which 
no  good  seed  is  sown  !  How  many  selfish,  niggardly, 
vicious  parents  are  there,  who,  producing  after  their 
kind,  by  generation  and  by  influence,  are  filling  the 
world  with  selfish,  niggardly,  and  vicious  children ! 
How  many  homes  are  there  in  which  the  gentle  words 
of  love  are  never  heard ;  in  which  the  tender  graces 
of  a  Christian  heart  are  never  unfolded ;  in  which  a 


Reproduction  in  Kind.  63 

prayer  is  never  uttered !  How  many  fathers  are  there 
whose  lips  are  black  with  profanity  and  foul  with  ob- 
scenity, and  whose  lives  are  mean  and  unwholesome ! 
How  many  mothers  are  there  whose  tongues  are  nimble 
with  scandal  and  bitter  with  scolding,  and  whose  brains 
are  busy  with  vanities  and  jealousies !  Ah  !  if  there 
be  any  man  or  woman  in  this  world  who  has  no  moral 
right  to  have  a  child,  it  is  one  who  has  not  a  single 
trait  of  character  desirable  to  be  reproduced  in  a 
child.  Scrofula  may  be  bad,  but  sin  is  worse.  Bodily 
taint  may  be  terrible,  but  spiritual  taint  is  horrible. 

It  is  a  general  truth,  under  the  law  that  every  thing 
produces  after  its  kind,  that  children  become  what 
their  parents  are.  A  simple  people,  virtuous  and 
healthy,  will  produce  virtuous,  healthy,  and  true-heart- 
ed children.  A  luxurious  people — lazy,  sensual,  waste- 
ful— will  produce  children  like  themselves.  If  we  go 
through  the  vicious  quarters  of  a  great  city,  where 
licentiousness  and  drunkenness  and  beastly  vices  pre- 
vail, we  shall  find  that  though  all  die  before  old  age, 
the  communities  are  abundantly  recruited  by  the  chil- 
dren which  they  produce.  Men,  principles,  habits, 
ideas,  vices,  all  have  children,  whose  features  betray 
their  parentage ;  so  that  no  parent  has  a  right  to  ex- 
pect a  child  to  be  better  than  its  father  and  mother. 
On  the  contrary,  he  has  every  reason  to  believe  that 
every  thing  that  a  child  sees  wrong  in  the  parents,  will 


64  Leffons  in  Life. 

be  imitated.  There  is  no  way  by  which  bad  parents  can 
bring  up  a  family  well.  There  must  be  in  the  parental 
life  good  principles,  a  sweet  and  equable  temper,  a  ten- 
der and  loving  disposition,  a  firm  self-control,  a  pleas- 
ant deportment,  and  a  conscientious  devotion  to  duty, 
or  these  will  not  be  found  in  the  life  of  the  children. 
Bad  seed,  sown  'in  the  quick  soil  of  a  child's  mind,  is 
sure  to  spring  up,  and  to  bear  fruit  after  its  kind.  No 
sensible  man  ever  dreams  of  gathering  figs  from  this- 
tles, or  grapes  from  bramble-bushes,  and  no  man  has 
the  slightest  right  to  suppose  that  he  can  bring  up  a 
family  to  be  better  than  he  is.  The  plant  will  be  true 
to  the  seed. 

We  are  in  the  habit  of  hearing  that  the  children 
of  a  certain  neighborhood,  or  school,  or  town,  are  ex- 
traordinarily bad  children.  Great  wonder  is  some- 
times expressed  in  regard  to  such  instances,  when, 
really,  they  are  not  wonderful  at  all.  When  children 
are  unusually  bad,  parents  are  unusually  bad,  or,  if 
they  are  not  bad-hearted,  they  are  wrong-headed.  I 
ought,  perhaps,  to  say  here  that  I  have  known  an  iras- 
cible, tyrannical,  unjust  and  cruel  school-teacher  to 
spoil  a  neighborhood  of  children,  when  the  parents  were 
without  any  special  fault,  save  that  of  failing  to  thrust 
him  out  of  the  charge  which  he  had  abused.  •  But  usu- 
ally the  fault  is  at  home.  If  the  seed  planted  there  be 
good,  it  will  produce  good  fruit.  Yet  my  reader  will 


Reproduction  in  Kind.  65 

say  that  the  best  man  he  ever  knew,  had  the  worst 
children  he  ever  saw.  The  truth  of  the  statement  is 
admitted,  but  what  do  you  know  of  the  home  life  of 
that  family?  How  much  unreasonable  restraint  has 
been  exercised  upon  those  children?  From  how  many 
exhibitions  of  stern  and  unrelenting  injustice  have  these 
children  suffered?  What  laxity  of  discipline  and  care- 
lessness of  culture  have  reigned  in  that  family  ?  I  know 
many  who  seem  to  be  excellent  men  in  society,  but 
who  are  any  thing  but  amiable  men  at  home.  In  one 
they  are  pleasant,  affable,  kind,  and  charitable  ;  in  the 
other,  cross-grained,  hard,  unkind,  and  unjust.  I  de- 
clare with  all  positiveness,  that  when  a  family  or  a 
neighborhood  of  children  is  bad,  there  is  a  reason  for 
it  outside  of  the  children.  There  are  bad  influences 
which  descend  upon  them,  and  work  out  their  natural 
results  in  them. 

It  is  astonishing  to  see  how  long  a  seed  will  lie  in 
the  ground  without  germinating,  and  how  true  it  will 
remain  to  its  kind  through  untold  years.  Cut  down  a 
pine  forest,  where  an  oak  has  not  been  seen  for  a  cen- 
tury, and  oak  shrubbery  will  spring  up.  Heave  out 
upon  the  surface  a  pile  of  earth  that  has  lain  hidden 
from  the  eyes  of  a  dozen  generations,  and  forthwith  it 
will  grow  green  with  weeds.  Plough  up  the  prairie, 
and  turn  under  the  grass  and  flowers  that  have  grown 
there  since  the  white  settler  can  remember,  and  there 


66  Leffons  in  Life. 

will  spring  from  the  inverted  sod  a  strange  growth 
that  has  had  no  representative  in  the  sunlight  for  long 
ages.  Soul  and  soil  are  alike  in  this.  I  once  heard  a 
man  say  of  his  father,  who  had  been  dead  many  years 
— "  I  hate  him :  I  hate  his  memory."  The  words  were 
spoken  bitterly,  with  a  flushed  face  and  angry  eyes, 
yet  he  who  spoke  them  was  one  of  the  kindest  and 
most  placable  of  men.  Deep  down  in  his  heart,  under 
love  for  his  mother  which  was  almost  worship,  and 
under  affection  for  wife,  children,  and  sisters  which  was 
as  deep  as  his  nature,  and  under  multiplied  friendships, 
there  had  been  planted  this  seed.  The  father  had 
treated  the  boy  harshly  and  unjustly;  and  the  young 
soul  was  stung  as  the  tender  fruit  is  stung  by  an  insect. 
Where  anger  and  resentment  were  sown,  anger  and 
resentment  were  ready  to  spring  up  the  moment  the 
seed  was  uncovered.  I  have  known  men  to  carry 
through  life  a  revenge  planted  in  their  hearts  by  some 
unjust  and  cruel  schoolmaster.-  How  many  men  are 
there  are  in  the  world  who  have  sworn  to  revenge 
themselves  upon  one  who  had  stung  them  with  anger 
or  injustice  when  in  childhood ! 

So  we  come  to  the  grand  lesson,  that  if  we  would 
have  good  children,  we  must  ourselves  be  exactly  what 
we  would  have  them  become ;  if  we  would  govern  our 
families,  we  must  first  govern  ourselves ;  if  we  would 
have  only  pleasant  words  greet  our  ears  in  the  home 


Reprodu&ion  in   Kind. 


67 


circle,  we  must  speak  only  pleasant  words.  We  should 
see  to  it  that  we  plant  nothing,  the  legitimate  fruits  of 
which  we  shall  not  be  willing  and  glad  to  see  borne  in 
the  lives  of  our  children.  If  our  children  are  bad,  the 
fault  is,  ninety-nine  cases  in  a  hundred,  our  own,  in 
some  way.  If  we  would  reform  society,  or  make  it 
better  in  any  respect,  our  quickest  way  to  do  it  is  to 
reform  and  make  ourselves  better.  If  I  would  reap 
courtesy  and  hospitality  and  kindness  and  love,  I  must 
plant  them ;  and  it  is  the  sum  of  all  arrogance  to  .as- 
sume that  I  have  a  right  to  reap  them  without  plant- 
ing them.  A  man  who  receives  courtesy  without  exer- 
cising it,  reaps  that  which  he  has  not  sown.  He  is  a 
thief,  and  ought  in  justice  to  be  kicked  out  of  society. 
Blessings  on  the  man  who  sows  the  seeds  of  a  happy 
nature  and  a  noble  character  broadcast  wherever  his 
feet  wander, — who  has  a  smile  alike  for  joy  and  sor- 
row, a  tender  word  always  for  a  child,  a  compassion- 
ate utterance  for  suffering,  courtesy  for  friends  and  for 
strangers,  encouragement  for  the  despairing,  an  open 
heart  for  all — love  for  all — good  words  for  all !  Such 
seed  produces  after  its  kind  in  all  soils,  when  it  finds 
lodgment;  and  that  which  the  sower  fails  to  reap, 
passes  into  hands  that  are  grateful  for  the  largess. 


<H  LESSON  V. 

TEUTH   AST)    TRUTHFULNESS. 

For  truth  is  as  impossible  to  be  soiled  by  any  outward  touch  as  a  sunbeam." 

MILTON. 

"Odds  life !  must  one  swear  to  the  truth  of  a  song? " — MATTHEW  PEIOE. 

"Get  but  the  truth  once  uttered,  and  'tis  like 
A  star  new-born  that  drops  into  its  place, 
And  which,  once  circling  in  its  placid  ronn^p»><(— __ 
Not  all  the  tumult  of  the  earth  can  shake."— -LOWELL. 

ONE  of  the  rarest  powers  possessed  by  man  is  llie 
power  to  state  a  fact.  It  seems  a  very  simple  thing 
to  tell  the  truth,  but,  beyond  all  question,  there  is  noth- 
ing half  so  easy  as  lying.  To  comprehend  a  fact  in  its 
exact  length,  breadth,  relations,  and  significance,  and 
to  state  it  in  language  that  shall  represent  it  with 
exact  fidelity,  are  the  work  of  a  mind  singularly  gifted, 
finely  balanced,  and  thoroughly  practiced  in  that  special 
department  of  effort.  The  greatness  of  Daniel  Webster 
was  more  apparent  in  his  power  to  state  a  fact,  or  to 


• .      Truth  and  Truthfulnefs.  69 

present  a  truth,  than  in  any  other  characteristic  of  his 
gigantic  nature.  It  was  the  power  of  truth  that  won 
for  him  his  forensic  victories.  Whenever  he  was  truest 
to  truth,  then  was  truth  truest  to  him.  He  was  a  man 
who  implicitly  believed  in  the  power  of  truth  to  take 
care  of  itself  when  it  had  been  fairly  presented ;  and 
the  failures  of  his  life  always  grew  out  of  his  attempts 
to  make  falsehood  look  like  truth — a  field  of  effort  in 
which  the  most  gifted  of  his  cotemporaries  won  the 
most  brilliant  of  his  triumphs. 

The  men  are  comparatively  few  who  are  in  the 
habit  of  telling  the  truth.  We  all  lie,  every  day  of 
our  lives — almost  in  every  sentence  we  utter — not  con- 
sciously and  criminally,  perhaps,  but  really,  in  that  our 
language  fails  to  represent  truth,  and  state  facts  cor- 
rectly. Our  truths  are  half-truths,  or  distorted  truths, 
or  exaggerated,  truths,  or  sophisticated  truths.  Much 
of  this  is  owing  to  carelessness,  much  to  habit,  and, 
more  than  has  generally  been  supposed,  to  mental  inca- 
pacity. I  have  known  eminent  men  who  had  not  .the 
power  to  state  a. fact,. in  its  whole  volume  and  outline, 
because,  first,  they  could  not  comprehend  it  perfectly, 
and,  second,  because  their  power  of  expression  was 
limited.  The  lenses  by  which  they  apprehended  their 
facts  were  not  adjusted  properly,  so  they  saw  every 
thing  with  a  blur.  Definite  outlines,  cleanly  cut  edges, 
exact  apprehension  of  volume  and  weight,  nice  meas- 


70  LefTons  in  Life. 

urement  of  relations,  were  matters  outside  of  their 
observation  and  experience.  They  had  broad  minds, 
but  bungling ;  and  their  language  was  no  better  than 
their  apprehensions — usually  it  was  worse,  because  lan- 
guage is  rarely  as  definite  as  apprehension.  Men  rarely 
do  their  work  to  suit  them,  because  their  tools  are 
imperfect. 

There  are  men  in  all  communities  who  are  believed 
to  be  honest,  yet  whose  word  is  never  taken  as  author- 
ity upon  any  subject.  There  is  a  flaw  or  a  warp  some- 
where in  their  perceptions,  which  prevents  them  from 
receiving  truthful  impressions.  Every  thing  comes  to 
them  distorted,  as  natural  objects  are  distorted  by 
reaching  the  eye  through  wrinkled  window-glass.  Some 
are  able  to  apprehend  a  fact  and  state  it  correctly,  if  it 
have  no  direct  relation  to  themselves  ;  but  the  moment 
their  personality,  or  their  personal  interest,  is  involved, 
the  fact  assumes  false  proportions  and  false  colors.  I 
know  a  physician  Avhose  patients  are  always  alarmingly 
sick  when  he  is  first  called  to  them.  As  they  usually  get 
well,  I  am  bound  to  believe  that  he  is  a  good  physician  ; 
but  I  am  not  bound  to  believe  that  they  are  all  as  sick  at 
beginning  as  he  supposes  them  to  be.  The  first  violent 
symptoms  operate  upon  his  imagination  and  excite  his 
fears,  and  his  opinion  as  to  the  degree  of  danger  attaching 
to  the  diseases  of  his  patients  is  not  worth  half  so  much 
as  that  of  any  sensible  old  nurse.  In  fact,  nobody  thinks 


Truth  and  Truthfulnefs.  71 

of  taking  it  all ;  and  those  who  know  him,  and  who 
hear  his  sad  representations  of  the  condition  of  his 
patients,  show  equal  distrust  of  his  word  and  faith  in 
his  skill,  by  taking  it  for  granted  that  they  are  iu  a  fair 
way  to  get  well. 

It  is  impossible  for  bigots,  for  men  of  one  idea,  for 
fanatics,  for  those  who  set  boundaries  to  themselves  in 
religious,  social,  and  political  creeds,  for  men  who  think 
more  of  their  own  selfish  interests  than  they  do  of 
truth,  and  for  vicious  men,  to  speak  the  truth.  "We 
are  all,  I  suppose,  bigots  to  a  greater  or  less  extent. 
We  all  have  a  creed  written  in  our  minds,  or  printed 
in  our  books  ;  and  to  this  we  are  more  or  less  blindly 
attached.  "We  set  down  an  article  of  faith,  or  adopt 
an  opinion,  and  nothing  is  allowed  to  interfere  with  it. 
If  a  sturdy  fact  comes  along,  and  asks  admission,  we 
turn  to  our  creed  to  see  if  we  can  safely  entertain  it. 
If  the  creed  says  "  No,"  we  say  "  No,"  and  the  fact  is 
turned  out  of  doors,  and  misrepresented  after  it  is  gone. 
Our  creeds  are  our  dwellings.  They  come  next  to  us, 
and  nothing  can  come  to  us,  or  go  out  from  us,  without 
going  through  our  creeds.  The  simple  fact  of  the 
death  of  Jesus  Christ  upon  the  cross,  reaching  the 
mind  through  various  creeds,  and  passing  out  again, 
goes  through  as  many  phases  as  there  are  creeds,  rang- 
ing through  a  scab  which  at  one  extreme  presents  a 
God  dying  to  redeem  the  lost  millions  of  a  world, 


72  Leffons  in  Life. 

and,  at  the  other,  a  benevolent,  sweet-tempered  man, 
yielding  his  life  in  testimony  of  the  honesty  of  his 
teachings. 

"No  new  truth  presents  itselt,  which  does  not  have 
to  run  the  gauntlet  of  our  creeds.  If  it  get  through 
alive,  and  seem  disposed  to  be  peaceable,  and  to  remain 
subordinate  to  them,  then  we  let  it  live,  and  receive 
it  into  respectable  society ; — otherwise,  we  entreat  it 
shamefully.  Sometimes  the  truth  is  too  much  for  us, 
and  asserts  its  power  to  stand  without  our  help,  and 
then  we  compromise  with  it.  The  world  will  turn  on 
its  axis,  and  wheel  around  its  orbit,  though  we  stop 
the  mouth  of  the  profane  wretch  who  declares  it ;  so, 
after  a  while,  we  get  tired  of  fighting  the  fact,  and 
shape  our  creeds  accordingly.  We  fight  the  sturdy 
truths  of  geology,  because  they  interfere  with  our 
creeds,  but  after  awhile  the  sturdy  truths  of  geology 
become  too  sturdy  for  us,  and  then  we  begin  to  patron- 
ize them,  and  to  confer  upon  them  the  honor  of  har- 
monizing with  our  creeds.  A  man  who  has  adopted 
the  creed  of  a  materialist,  is  entirely  incompetent  to 
receive,  entertain,  and  represent  a  spiritual  fact.  My 
creed  is  the  window  at  which  I  sit,  and  look  at  all  the 
world  of  truth  outside  of  me.  All  truth  is  tinted  by 
the  medium  through  which  it  passes  to  reach  my  mind ; 
and  such  is  my  imperfection  and  my  weakness,  that  I 
could  not  raise  my  window  immediately,  and  place  my 


7 


Truth  and  Truthfulnefs.  73 

soul  in  direct,  vital  contact  with  the  great  atmosphere 
of  truth,  if  I  would. 

But  if  bigotry  be  such  a  bar  to  the  correct  percep- 
tion of  truth,  what  shall  be  said  of  self-interest  and 
personal  vices  of  appetite  and  passion  ?  It  is  possible 
for  no  man  who  owns  a  slave  and  finds  profit  in  such 
ownership,  to  receive  the  truth  touching  the  right  of  man 
to  himself,  and  the  moral  wrong  of  slavery.  We  have 
too  much  evidence  that  even  creeds  must  bend  to  self- 
interest,  and  that  any  traffic  will  be  regarded  as  morally 
right  which  is  pecuniarily  profitable.  Once,  in  the 
creed  of  the  slaveholders,  slavery  was  admitted  to  be 
wrong,  but  that  was  when  it  was  looked  upon  as  tem- 
porary in  its  character,  and,  on  the  whole,  evil  in  its 
results  to  all  concerned.  Now,  when  it  is  sought  to 
be  made  a  permanent  institution,  because  it  seems  to 
be  the  only  source  of  the  wealth  of  a  section,  it  has 
become  right ;  and  even  the  slave-trade  logically  fells 
into  the  category  of  laudable  and  legitimate  commerce. 
It  is  impossible  for  a  people  who  have  allowed  pe- 
cuniary interest  to  deprave  their  moral  sense  to  this 
extent,  to  perceive  and  receive  any  sound  political 
truth,  or  to  apprehend  the  spirit  and  temper  of  those 
who  are  opposed  to  them.  The  same  may  be  said  of 
the  liquor  traffic.  The  act  of  selling  liquor  is  looked 
upon  with  horror  by  those  who  stand  outside,  and  who 
have  an  eye  upon  its  consequences ;  but  the  seller  deems 


74  Leffons  in  Life. 

it  legitimate,  and  looks  upon  any  interference  with  his 
sales  as  an  infringement  of  his  rights.  Our  selfish  inter- 
est in  any  business,  or  in  any  scheme  of  profit,  distorts 
all  truth  either  directly  or  indirectly  related  to  such 
business  or  scheme,  or  living  in  its  region  and  atmos- 
phere. The  President  of  the  United  States,  or  the 
governor  of  the  commonwealth,  may  be  an  excellent 
man ;  but  if  I  want  an  office,  and  he  fails  to  appoint  me 
to  it,  why  I  don't  exactly  regard  him  as  such.  He 
becomes  to  me  a  very  ordinary  and  vulgar  sort  of  man 
indeed ;  but  if  he  give  me  my  office,  then,  though  he 
may  be  all  that  his  enemies  think  him,  he  seems  to  me 
to  be  invested  with  a  singular  nobility  of  character 
that  other  people  do  not  apprehend  at  all. 

The  vices  of  humanity  are  sad  media  through  which 
to  receive  truth — often  so  opaque  that  no  truth  can 
reach  the  mind  at  all.  It  is  impossible  for  a  man  whose 
affections  are  bestialized,  whose  practices  are  libertine, 
and  whose  imaginations  are  all  impure,  to  receive  the 
truth  that  there  are  such  things  as  purity  and  virtue, 
and  that  there  are  men  and  women  around  him  who 
are  virtuous  and  pure.  There  is  no  truth  which  per- 
sonal vice  will  not  distort.  The  approaches  to  a  sen- 
sual mind  are  through  the  senses,  and  the  same  may  be 
said  of  all  minds  in  a  general  way  ;  but  the  approaches 
to  a  sensual  mind  are  only  through  the  senses,  and 
they,  being  perverted,  abused,  exhausted,  or  unduly  ex- 


Truth  and  Truthfulnefs.  75 

cited,  furnish  the  utterly  unreliable  avenues  by  which 
truth  reaches  the  soul.  The  grand  reason  why  truth, 
published  from  the  pulpit  and  the  platform,  revealed  in 
periodicals  and  books,  and  embodied  in  pictures  and 
statues,  works  no  greater  changes  upon  the  minds  and 
morals  of  men,  is,  that  it  never  gets  inside  of  men  in 
the  shape  in  which  it  is  uttered.  It  passes  through 
such  media  of  bigotry,  or  self-interest,  or  vice,  that  its 
identity  and  power  are  lost. 

It  is  not,  therefore,  remarkable  that  so  little  truth 
is  told  when  so  little  is  received — that  so  little  is  ex- 
pressed when  so  little  is  apprehended.  The  largest 
field  will  not  produce  an  oat-straw  that  will  stand  alone, 
if  there  be  no  silica  in  the  soil,  and  the  largest  mind 
cannot  express  a  pure  truth  if  it  has  lived  always  so 
encased  that  pure  truth  could  not  find  its  way  into  it. 
All  truth  reaches  our  minds  through  various  media,  by 
which  it  is  more  or  less  colored  and  refracted  ;  and  it 
is  very  rare  that  a  man  has  the  power  to  embody  in 
language  and  utter  a  truth  in  the  degree  of  perfection 
in  which  he  received  it.  As  I  said  at  beginning,  the 
power  to  state  a  fact  correctly,  or  to  express  a  pure 
truth,  is  among  the  rarest  gifts  of  man.  It  never 
struck  me  that  David  was  remarkably  hasty,  when 
he  said  that  all  men  were  liars.  All  men  are  liars, 
in  one  respect  or  another.  They  are  divisible  into 
various  classes,  which  may  legitimately  be  mentioned 


76  Leflbns  in  Life. 

under  two  heads,  viz.,  unconscious  liars  and  conscious 
liars. 

Of  those  who  lie,  and  suppose  they  are  telling  the 
truth,  I  have  already  spoken.  They  are  a  large  and 
most  respectable  class  of  people,  and  their  apology 
must  be  found  in  the  theory  I  have  advanced ;  yet 
among  these  may  be  found  men  and  women  who  will 
require  ah1  the  amplitude  of  our  mantles  of  charity  to 
cover  them.  I  have  been  much  impressed  with  a  pas- 
sage in  Dr.  Bushnell's  recent  volume,  entitled  "  Chris- 
tian Nurture,"  which  incidentally  touches  upon  this 
subject,  in  the  writer's  characteristically  powerful  way; 
and  as  I  cannot  condense  it,  I  will  copy  it : 

"There  is,  in  some  persons  who  appear  in  all  other  respects  to  be 
Christian,  a  strange  defect  of  truth,  or  truthfulness.  They  are  not 
conscious  of  it.  They  would  take  it  as  a  cruel  injustice  were  they 
only  to  suspect  their  acquaintances  of  holding  such  an  estimate  of 
them.  And  yet,  there  is  a  want  of  truth  in  every  sort  of  demonstra- 
tion they  make.  It  is  not  their  words  only  that  lie,  but  their  voice, 
air,  action ;  their  every  putting  forth  has  a  lying  character.  The 
atmosphere  they  live  in  is  an  atmosphere  of  pretence.  Their  virtues 
are  affectations.  Their  compassions  and  sympathies  are  the  airs  they 
put  on.  Their  friendship  is  their  mood,  and  nothing  more ;  and  yet 
they  do  not  know  it.  They  mean,  it  may  be,  no  fraud.  They  only  cheat 
themselves  so  effectually  as  to  believe  that  what  they  are  only  acting 
is  their  truth.  And,  what  is  difficult  to  reconcile,  they  have  a  great 
many  Christian  sentiments ;  they  maintain  prayer  as  a  habit,  and  will 
sometimes  speak  intelligently  of  matters  of  Christian  experience." 

It  was  the  oracular  sage,  Deacon  Bedott,  who,  in 
view  of  the  imperfections  of  his  kind,  remarked  several 


Truth  and  Truthfulnefs. 


times  in  his  life  :  "  we  are  all  poor  creeturs " — a  re- 
mark that  comes  as  near  to  being  pure  truth  as  any  we 
meet  with  outside  of  the  Bible  and  the  standard  trea- 
tises on  mathematics.  "We  are,  indeed,  poor  creatures. 
Our  highest  conceptions  of  truth  are  contemptible,  our 
best  utterances  fall  short  of  our  conceptions,  and  our 
lives  are  poorer  than  our  language. 

Of  all  conscious  and  criminal  lying,  I  know  of  none 
that  exceeds  in  malignity  and  magnitude  that  of  a  po- 
litical campaign.  In  such  a  struggle,  men  get  in  love 
with  lies.  They  seek  apologies  for  the  circulation  of 
lies.  They  hug  lies  to  their  hearts  in  preference  to 
truth.  It  is  the  habit  of  hopeful  philosophers  to  enlarge 
upon  the  benefit  to  our  people  of  the  annual  and  quad- 
rennial contests  for  place,  which  occur  in  our  countiy, 
as  if  principles  were  the  things  really  at  stake,  and  per- 
sonalities were  out  of  the  question,  as  the  lying  poli- 
ticians would  have  us  believe.  What,  in  honesty,  can 
be  said  of  the  leading  speakers  and  the  leading  presses 
which  sustain  a  party  in  a  contest  for  power,  but  that 
they  studiously  misrepresent  their  opponents,  misstate 
their  own  motives,  give  currency  to  false  accusations, 
suppress  truth  that  tells  against  them,  exaggerate  the 
importance  of  that  which  favors  them,  seize  upon  all 
plausible  pretexts  for  fraud,  skulk  behind  subterfuges, 
and  lie  outright  when  it  is  deemed  necessary.  And 
what  can  be  expected  more  and  better  than  this,  when 


78  Leflbns  in  Life. 

the  leaders  are  office-seekers,  who  live  and  thrive  on 
the  grand  basilar  lie  that  the  motive  which  inspires  all 
their  action  is  a  regard  for  the  popular  good  ?  Of 
course  I  speak  generally.  There  are  politicians  and 
presses  that  are  above  personal  considerations ;  but 
even  these  become  infected  with  the  prevalent  poison 
of  falsehood  that  is  everywhere  associated  with  their 
efforts. 

The  social  lying  of  the  world  has  found  multitudi- 
nous satirists,  and  furnished  the  staple  of  a  whole  school 
of  writers.  We  touch  our  hats  in  token  of  respect  to 
men  whom  in  our  heai'ts  we  despise.  We  inquire  ten- 
derly for  the  health  of  persons  for  whom  we  do  not 
care  a  straw.  We  who  cannot  afford  it  wear  expensive 
clothing,  and  display  grand  equipage,  and  give  costly 
entertainments,  not  because  we  enjoy  it,  but  because 
we  wish  to  impress  upon  the  world  the  belief  that  we 
can  afford  it.  It  is  our  way  of  expressing  a  lie  which 
seems  to  us  important  to  the  maintenance  of  our  social 
standing.  We  receive  with  a  kiss  a  visitor  whom  we 
wish  were  in  Greenland,  and  betray  her  to  the  next  who 
comes  in.  We  pretend  to  ourselves  and  our  neighbors 
that  there  is  nothing  which  we  so  much  esteem  as  the 
simple  friendships  of  life,  and  the  straight-forward  love 
and  hearty  good  will  of  the  honest  hearts  around  us, 
yet  when  the  rich  and  the  titled  arc  near,  we  are  glad- 
dened and  flattered,  and  look  with  supercilious  con- 


Truth  and  Truthful nefs.  79 

tempt  upon  the  humble  friendships  which  we  affected 
to  cherish  supremely.  In  our  conscience  and  judgment, 
we  appreciate  the  genuine  values  of  social  life,  and  we 
profess  in  our  language  to  hold  them  in  just  estimation, 
but  in  our  life  and  practice  we  honor  that  which  is  fic- 
titious and  conventional,  apprehending  in  our  conscience 
and  judgment  that  we  are  acting  a  lie.  Socially  I  can- 
not but  believe  that  there  is  far  more  of  truthfulness  in 
humble  than  in  high  life.  The  more  nearly  we  come 
down  to  hearty  nature,  and  the  further  we  go  from  the 
artificial  and  conventional,  the  nearer  do  we  come  to 
truth.  Truth  is  indeed  at  the  bottom  of  this  well,  and. 
not  in  the  artificial  wall  that  rises  above  it,  nor  the 
buckets  that  go  up  and  down  as  caprice  or  selfishness 
turns  the  windlass. 

Business  lying  is,  after  all,  the  most  universal  of 
any.  It  is  confined  to  no  age  and  no  nation.  Solomon 
understood  the  world's  great  game  when  he  wrote : 
"  It  is  naught,  it  is  naught,  saith  the  buyer  :  but  when 
he  is  gone  his  way,  then  he  boasteth  ; "  and  from  Solo- 
mon's day  down  to  ours,  buyers  have  depreciated  that 
which  they  would  purchase,  and  then  boasted  of  their 
bargains.  "When  two  selfish  persons  meet  on  opposite 
sides  of  a  counter,  there  rises  between  them  a  sort  of 
antagonism.  One  is  interested  in  selling  an  article  of 
merchandise  at  the  highest  practicable  profit,  and  the 
other  is  interested  in  obtaining  it  at  the  lowest  possible 


80  Leflbns  in  Life. 

price.  Of  the  small,  cunning  lies  that  pass  back  and 
forth  over  that  counter,  of  the  half-truths  told,  and  the 
whole  truths  suppressed,  of  deceptions  touching  the 
quality  of  goods  on  one  side  and  the  ability  to  buy  on 
the  other,  it  would  be  humiliating  to  tell.  If  every  lie 
told  in  the  shops,  across  mahogany  and  show-case,  by 
buyers  and  sellers,  were  nailed  like  base  coin  to  the 
counter,  there  would  be  no  room  for  the  display  of 
goods.  It  is  considered  no  mean  compliment  to  a  busi- 
ness man  to  say  that  he  is  sharp  at  a  bargain ;  yet  this 
sharpness  is  rarely  more  than  the  faculty  of  ingenious 
lying.  A  man  who  sells  to  me  an  article  worth  only 
five  dollars  for  twice  that  sum  is  a  "  a  sharp  man  ; " 
but  he  cannot  make  such  a  sale  to  me  without  telling 
me,  in  some  way,  a  lie.  The  price  he  puts  upon  his 
merchandise  is  a  lie,  essentially,  in  itself. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  business  lying  that  by  long 
habit  becomes  unconscious.  If  we  take  up  a  news- 
paper, we  shall  find  that  quite  a  number  of  the  stores 
around  us,  kept  by  our  excellent  friends,  have  "  the 
largest  and  finest  stock  of  goods  ever  displayed  in  the 
city."  We  shall  find  that  they  have  been  selling 
for  years  at  "  unprecedentedly  low  prices,"  that  they 
are  "  selling  at  less  than  cost,"  that  they  are  pushing 
off  goods  at  rates  "  ruinously  low,"  and  that  they  can 
offer  bargains  to  buyers  that  will  confound  their  com- 
petitors. I  suppose  that  none  of  these  advertisers  think 


Truth  and  Truthfulnefs.  81 

they  are  lying,  or,  if  they  do,  that  their  lying  is  of  a 
harmful  character.  Lying  in  this  way  is  supposed  to 
be  part  of  the  legitimate  machinery  of  trade.  Promis- 
ing definitely  to  finish  work  without  the  expectation 
of  keeping  the  promise,  or  being  able  to  keep  it,  is  an- 
other kind  of  half  unconscious  lying.  There  are  men 
engaged  in  various  trades,  in  all  communities,  whose 
word  is  of  no  more  value,  when  in  the  form  of  a  promise 
to  finish  within  a  certain  period  a  certain  piece  of  work, 
than  the  fly-leaf  of  a  last  year's  almanac.  There  are 
men  whom  every  one  knows  who  will  lie  without  blush- 
ing about  their  work,  and  who  will  stand  at  their  coun- 
ter and  lie  all  day,  and  then  sleep  with  a  peaceful 
conscience  at  night,  having  failed  to  fulfil  a  single 
pledge  during  their  waking  hours.  Then  there  are 
people  who  will  promise  to  pay  bills,  and  promise  a 
hundred  times  over,  and  never  pay,  and  never  expect 
to  pay.  When  a  bill  is  presented,  they  promise  to 
pay,  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  and  that  is  considered  as 
good  as  the  gold,  until  it  is  presented  again  ;  and  then 
comes  another  promise,  and  another  and  another. 
The  creditor  knows  the  debtor  lies,  but  many  a  debtor 
of  this  kind  would  feel  insulted  and  injured  by  any 
spoken  doubts  of  his  truthfulness. 

But  the  field  is  large,  and  I  am  already  beyond  the 
limits  which  I  set  fqr  myself  in  these  essays.     It  will 
be  seen  that  I  regard  truthfulness  as,  on  the  whole,  a 
4* 


82  Leffons  in  Life. 

rare  article  in  this  world.  It  is  in  some  respects  neces- 
sarily so.  Many  men  are  incapable  of  stating  a  fact  or 
telling  a  truth.  They  have  not  the  power  to  compre- 
hend or  express  either.  The  majority  of  men  receive 
truth  through  such  media  of  prejudice,  selfishness, 
bigotry,  sensuality,  and  the  like,  that  they  never  get  it 
pure,  and  are  therefore  incapable  of  uttering  it  cor- 
rectly, even  when  their  power  of  expression  equals  their 
power  of  perception,  which  is  not  commonly  the  case. 
So  there -is  a  world  of  unconscious  lying ;  but  I  am 
sorry  to  believe  that  there  is  just  as  large  a  world  of 
conscious  lying.  In  politics,  society,  and  business,  the 
conscious  and  intentional  lie  abounds.  "Lord!  how 
this  world  is  given  to  lying !  " 

"Well,  all  this  can  be  improved.  Men  can  cultivate 
the  power  to  apprehend  and  express  truth.  They  can 
cast  off  the  prejudice,  selfishness,  bigotry,  and  sensuality 
that  prevent  them  from  receiving  truth.  They  can  re- 
frain from  conscious  lying  ;  and  no  one  doubts  that  the 
world  would  be  greatly  improved  by  honest  efforts 
directed  to  these  ends.  Only  the  naked  soul,  in  Eter- 
nity's white  light,  can  be  wholly  truth-ful ;  but  we  can 
all  try  for  it,  and  we  shall  find  our  highest  account  in 
trying. 


LESSON  VI. 

MISTAKES   OF    PENANCE. 

.   "  For  of  the  soul  the  body  form  doth  take, 
For  soul  is  form  and  doth  the  body  make." 

SPENSER. 

"Can  sackcloth  clothe  a  fault  or  hide  a  shame? 
Or  do  thy  hands  make  Heaven  a  recompense, 
By  strewing  dust  upon  thy  briny  face  ? 
No !  though  thou  pine  thyself  with  willing  want, 
Or  face  look  thin,  or  carcass  ne'er  so  gaunt ; 
Such  holy  madness  God  rejects  and  loathes 
That  sinks  no  deeper  than  the  skin  or  clothes." 

QUAELES. 

"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty." 

KEATS. 

I  HAVE  every  reason  to  believe  that  God  loves 
Shakers,  but  I  do  not  think  He  admires  them.  I 
do  not  see  how  He  can  ;  but  perhaps  this  is  not  a  com- 
petent reason  to  offer  in  the  premises.  I  saw  a  •wagon- 
load  of  what  I  supposed  to  be  Shakers  of  both  sexes, 
riding  along  the  street,  the  other  day ;  and  I  wondered 
what  I  should  think  of  them  if  I  had  made  them.  I 


84  Leffons  in  Life. 

think  I  should  have  been  about  equally  vexed  and 
amused  to  see  the  lines  that  I  had  made  beautiful,  dis- 
guised, and  every  grace-giving  swell  of  limb  and  bust, 
upon  which  I  had  exercised  such  exquisite  toil,  care- 
fully hidden.  They  sat  up  very  straight  and  prim,  in 
a  very  square  wagon,  behind  a  square-trotting  horse, 
driven  by  "  right  lines  "  in  a  pair  of  hands  that  seemed 
to  grow  out  of  the  driver's  stomach,  while  his  elevated, 
rectangular  elbows  cut  rigidly  against  the  air  on  either 
side.  It  was  a  vision  for  a  painter — a  house  painter — 
"  a  painter  by  trade."  The  long-haired,  meek-looking 
men,  with  their  flat-crowned,  broad-brimmed  hats, 
straight  coats  and  neutral  colors,  and  the  women  with 
their  sugar-scoop  bonnets,  white  kerchiefs  and  straight 
waists,  looked  like  a  case  of  faded  wax-figures,  in  prison 
uniform,  that  had  "  come  down  to  us  from  a  former 
generation." 

I  heaved  a  sigh  as  the  wagon-load  of  mortified  and 
badly-dressed  flesh  passed  out  of  sight,  and  wondered 
if  the  souls  inside  of  those  bodies  were  as  angular  as 
their  covering.  I  did  not  believe  it — I  do  not  believe 
it.  I  have  no  doubt  that  underneath  those  straight 
waistcoats  hearts  have  throbbed  at  the  sight  of  woman 
and  child,  and  longed  for  home  and  family  life,  with 
yearnings  that  could  not  be  uttered.  Those  straight- 
laced  sensibilities  have  been  thrilled  by  beauty,  and 
bathed  in  the  grace  and  glory  of  the  life  around  them. 


Miftakes  of  Penance.  85 

Trees  have  whispered  to  them,  flowers  have  looked  up 
and  rebuked  them,  brooks  have  called  to  them  with 
laughter,  rivers  have  smiled  upon  them  in  sunshine,  the 
great  sky  has  bent  over  them  with  infinite  tenderness 
and  fulness  of  beauty,  and  they  have  felt  what  they 
could  not  define.  It  was  something  very  wrong,  they 
supposed,  and  so  they  buttoned  their  straight  jackets 
around  them,  turned  their  eyes  away  from  beholding 
vanity,  and  thought  they  had  done  an  excellent  thing. 
I  know  that  those  young  women,  with  their  abomina- 
ble clothing  outside,  and  their  crushed  and  abused 
sympathies  inside,  are  unhappy,  unless  they  have  all 
been  mercifully  transformed  into  fanatics.  It  is  use- 
less to  tell  me  that  a  man  can  ignore  or  trample  to 
death  the  strongest  passion  of  his  nature — the  strong- 
est, the  purest,  and  the  most  ennobling — and  be  a 
happy  man.  It  is  useless  to  say  that  a  man  or  woman 
can  walk  through  a  world  of  beauty — themselves  the 
most  beautiful  of  all  things — and  bind  themselves  up 
in  unbecoming  drapery,  and  smother  all  their  im- 
pulses to  express  the  beauty  with  which  God  inspires 
them,  and  do  it  with  content  and  satisfaction.  It  can- 
not be  done. 

So,  when  this  wagon-load  of  Shakers  drove  out  of 
sight,  I  heaved  a  sigh,  for  I  knew  that  not  to  be  un- 
happy in  the  life  which  was  typefied  in  their  dress  and 
establishment,  would  be  a  greater  misfortune,  essen- 


86  Leffons  in  Life. 

tially,  than  dissatisfaction  and  discontent  would  be.  If 
they  were  happy  in  their  life,  they  must  have  become 
perverted  in  their  natures,  or  indurated  beyond  the 
susceptibility  to  receive  the  impressions  of  healthy  men 
and  women.  If  God  ever  put  any  thing  majestic  and 
noble  into  a  man,  and  gave  him  a  fitting  frame  for  it, 
Pie  never  intended  that  it  should  be  hidden  in  a  meal- 
bag,  or  permanently  quenched  under  a  smock-frock.  In 
the  infinite  variety  which  he  has  introduced  into  hu- 
man character  and  into  human  forms  and  faces,  there 
is  no  warrant  for  dressing  men  in  uniform,  but  a  most 
emphatic  protest  against  it.  If  God  made  woman 
beautiful,  He  made  her  so  to  be  looked  at — to  give 
pleasure  to  the  eyes  which  rest  upon  her — and  she  has 
no  business  to  dress  herself  as  if  she  were  a  hitching- 
post,  or  to  transform  that  which  should  give  delight  to 
those  among  whom  she  moves,  into  a  ludicrous  carica- 
ture of  a  woman's  form. 

I  repeat  that  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that 
God  loves  Shakers,  but  I  do  not  think  He  admires 
them.  If  God  admires  the  bodies  He  has  made, 
He  cannot  admire  them  when  they  arc  covered 
by  the  Shaker  dress,  for  it  spoils  the  looks  of  them, 
and  differs  essentially  from  the  plan  which  He  pur- 
sues in  draping  all  other  forms  of  life.  There  is  no 
grace  about  it,  and  no  beauty  of  color.  God  admires 
clouds,  I  doubt  not,  when  painted  by  the  setting  sun, 


Miftakes  of  Penance.  87 

and  stars  flashing  in  the  heavens,  and  the  flowers  of 
myriad  hues  that  are  scattered  over  the  earth,  but  if 
these  are  objects  of  His  special  admiration,  as  they  are 
of  ours,  what  can  He  think  of  a  drab  Shaker  bonnet  ? 
What  can  He  think  when  man  and  woman,  the  glo- 
ry and  crown  of  His  creation,  are  entirely  overtopped 
and  thrown  into  the  shade  by  birds  and  bees  and ,  blos- 
soms, and  go  poking  around  the  world  in  unexampled 
and  ingeniously  contrived  ugliness?  What  does  He 
think  of  men  and  women  who  take  that  passion  of  love, 
which  was  intended  to  make  them  happy,  and  give 
them  sweet  companionship,  and  bear  young  children 
to  their  arms,  and  trample  it  under  their  feet  as  an  un- 
holy thing,  and  to  welcome  to  their  hearts,  in  its  stead, 
blackness,  and  darkness,  and  tempest  ?  What  does  He 
think  of  lives  out  of  which  are  shut  all  meaning  and  all 
individuality,  and  all  love  and  expression  of  beauty,  and 
all  vivifying,  liberalizing,  and  humanizing  experience  ? 
I  owe  no  grudge  to  the  Shakers.  I  like  their  ap- 
ple-sauce, (they  ask  a  thrifty  price  for  it,)  and  have 
faith  in  the  genuineness  and  the  generation,  under  fa- 
vorable conditions,  of  their  garden  seeds  ;  but  I  object 
to  their  style  of  life  and  piety,  and  to  every  thing  out- 
side of  Shakerdom  which  looks  like  it.  I  object  to  this 
whole  idea,  (and  the  Shakers  have  not  monopolized  it,) 
that  God  takes  delight  in  the  voluntary  personal  mor- 
tification of  His  children,  and  that  He  approves  of 


88  Leffons  in  Life. 

their   going  about,  sad-faced  and  straight-laced,  stu- 
diously avoicfing  all  temptation  to  enjoy  themselves. 

I  have  seen  a  deacon  in  the  pride  of  his  deep  hu- 
mility. He  combed  his  hair  straight,  and  looked  stu- 
diously after  the  main  chance ;  and  while  he  looked, 
he  employed  himself  in  setting  a  good  example.  His 
dress  was  rigidly  plain,  and  his  wife  was  not  indulged 
in  the  vanities  of  millinery  and  mantua-making.  He 
never  joked.  He  did  not  know  what  a  joke  was,  any 
further  than  to  know  that  it  was  a  sin.  He  carried  a 
Sunday  face  through  the  week.  He  did  not  mingle  in 
the  happy  social  parties  of  his  neighborhood.  He  was 
a  deacon.  Pic  starved  his  social  nature  because  he 
was  a  deacon.  He  refrained  from  all  participation  in 
a  free  and  generous  life  because  he  was  a  deacon.  He 
made  his  children  hate  Sunday  because  he  was  a  dea- 
con. He  so  brought  them  up  that  they  learned  to 
consider  themselves  unfortunate  in  being  the  children 
of  a  deacon.  They  were  pitied  by  other  children  be- 
cause they  were  the  children  of  a  deacon.  His  wife 
was  pitied  by  other  women  because  she  was  the  wife 
of  a  deacon.  Nobody  loved  him.  If  he  came  into  a 
circle  where  men  were  laughing  or  telling  stories,  they 
always  stopped  until  he  went  out.  Nobody  ever  grasp- 
ed his  hand  cordially,  or  slapped  him  on  the  shoulder, 
or  spoke  of  him  as  a  good  fellow.  He  seemed  as  dry 
and  hard  and  tough  as  a  piece  of  jerked  beef.  There 


Miftakes  of  Penance.  89 

was  no  softness  of  character — no  juiciness — no  loveli- 
ness in  him. 

Now  it  is  of  no  use  for  me  to  undertake  to  realize 
to  myself  that  God  admires  such  a  character  as  this. 
I  do  not  doubt  that  He  loves  the  man,  as  He  loves  all 
men ;  but  to  admire  his  style  of  manhood  and  piety  is 
impossible  for  any  intelligent  being.  It  lacks  the 
roundness  and  fulness,  and  richness  and  sweetness,  that 
belong  to  a  truly  admirable  character.  Such  a  man 
caricatures  Christianity,  and  scares  other  men  away 
from  it.  Such  a  man  ostentatiously  presents  him- 
self as  one  in  whose  life  religion  is  dominant.  It  is 
religion  that  is  supposed  to  rub  down  that  long  face, 
and  inspire  that  stiff  demeanor,  and  to  make  him  at  all 
points  an  unattractive  and  unlovable  man.  Of  course 
it  is  not  religion  that  does  any  thing  of  the  kind,  but 
it  has  the  credit  of  it  with  the  world,  and  the  world 
does  not  like  it.  It  looks  around,  and  sees  a  great 
many  men  who  do  not  pretend  to  religion  at  all,  and 
yet  who  are  very  lovable  men.  If  religion  can  trans- 
form a  pleasant  man  into  a  most  unpleasant  one,  and 
change  a  free,  bright,  and  happy  home  into  a  dismal 
place  of  slavery,  and  blot  out  a  man's  aesthetic  and  so- 
cial nature,  the  world  naturally  thinks  that  getting  re- 
ligion would  be  almost  as  much  of  a  misfortune  as  get- 
ting some  melancholy  chronic  disease,  and  I  do  not 
blame  it.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  the  world 


90  Leffons  in  Life. 

should  mistake,  very  much,  the  true  nature  of  Chris- 
tianity, when  Christians  themselves  entertain  such  griev- 
ous errors  about  it. 

I  suppose  God  is  attracted  to  very  much  the  same 
style  of  character  that  men  are.  Christ  loved  a 
young  man  at  first  sight,  who  lacked  the  very  thing 
essential  to  his  highest  manhood.  But  He  loved  the 
kind  of  man  He  saw  before  Him.  He  was  upright, 
frank-hearted,  open-minded,  and  bright;  and  "Jesus 
beholding  him,  loved  him."  There  are  men  whom  one 
cannot  help  loving  and  admiring  though  they  lack  a 
great  many  things — things  very  "needful"  to  make 
them  perfect  men.  Now  I  put  it  to  good,  conscien- 
tious, Christian  men  and  women,  whether  they  do  not 
take  more  pleasure  in  the  society  of  a  warm-hearted, 
generous,  chivalrous,  well-fed,  man  of  the  world,  than 
in  the  society  of  any  of  that  class  of  Christians  of  whom 
the  deacon  I  have  mentioned  is  a  type.  I  know  they 
do,  and  they  cannot  help  it.  There  is  more  of  that  which 
belongs  to  a  first-class  Christian  character  in  the  for- 
mer than  in  the  latter,  and  if  I  were  called  upon  to  test 
the  two  men  by  commanding  them  respectively  to  sell 
what  they  have  and  give  to  the  poor,  I  should  be  dis- 
appointed were  the  deacon  to  behave  the  best.  A  char- 
acter which  religion  does  not  fructify — does  not  soften, 
enlarge,  beautify,  and  enrich — is  not  benefited  by  relig- 
ion— or,  rather,  has  not  possessed  itself  of  religion.  God 


Miftakes  of  Penance. 


91 


loves  that  which  is  beautiful  and  attractive  in  charac- 
ter, just  as  much  as  we  do,  and  it  makes  no  difference 
where  he  sees  it.  He  does  not  dislike  the  amiable 
traits  of  a  sinner  because  he  is  a  sinner,  nor  does  he 
admire  those  traits  of  a  Christian  which  we  feel  to  be 
contemptible,  simply  because  they  belong  to  a  Chris- 
tian. A  Christian  sucked  dry  of  his  humanity,  is  as 
juiceless  and  as  flavorless  as  a  sucked  orange,  and  I 
believe  that  God  regards  him  in  the  same  light  that 
we  do.  He  will  save  such  I  doubt  not,  for  their  faith ; 
and,  in  the  coming  world,  they  will  learn  what  they  do 
not  know  here ;  but  the  question  whether  they  are  as 
well  worth  saving  as  some  of  their  neighbors,  may,  I 
think,  be  legitimately  entertained.  In  saying  this,  I 
mean  to  be  neither  light  or  irreverent.  I  mean  simply 
to  indicate  that  some  men  are  worth  a  great  deal  more 
to  themselves  and  to  (heir  fellows  than  others. 

So,  when  I  look  abroad  upon  the  world,  and  see 
men  shaving  their  heads,  and  wearing  nasty  hair  shirts, 
and  shutting  themselves  up  in  cells,  and  living  lives  of 
celibacy,  and  when  I  see  women  retiring  from  the 
world  which  they  were  sent  to  adorn,  populate,  and 
bless,  and  Shakers  driving  around  in  square  wagons 
and  studiously  ugly  garments,  and  Christians  who 
should  know  better  abandoning  all  the  bright  and 
cheerful  things  of  life,  and  feeling  that  there  is  merit 
hi  mortification,  I  cannot  but  feel  that  God  looks  down 


92  Leffons  in  Life. 

upon  it  all  with  sadness  and  pity.  After  doing  every 
thing  in  His  power  to  make  His  children  happy — after 
filling  the  world  with  good  things  for  their  use,  and 
giving  them  abundant  faculties  for  enjoying  them — after 
endowing  them  with  beauty,  and  a  sense  of  that  which 
is  beautiful — it  must  be  sad  to  Him  to  see  them  wander- 
ing about  in  strange  disguises,  hugging  to  their  half- 
rebellious  hearts  the  awful' mistake  that,  however  much 
they  may  suffer,  they  are  gaining  favor  thereby  in  the 
sight  of  their  Maker.  Of  course,  I  believe  in  self- 
denial,  and  in  the  nobility  of  self-denial,  for  the  good 
of  others ;  but  I  believe  that  all  self-denial  that  par- 
takes of  the  character  of  penance,  in  whatever  form 
and  under  whatever  circumstanc'es  it  may  develop  it- 
self, is  always  a  thing  of  mischief,  and  always  a  thing 
of  error.  It  has  its  basis  in  the  miserable  theory  that 
there  is  something  in  the  passions  and  appetites  with 
which  God  has  constituted  man  that  is  essentially  bad 
— a  theory  as  impious  as  it  is  injurious — as  fatal  to  all 
just  conceptions  of  the  divine  Being  and  of  man's  re- 
lations to  Him,  as  to  all  human  happiness. 

Every  thing  which  is  truly  admirable  is  good, 
and  good  and  desirable  in  the  degree  by  which  it  is 
admirable.  A  beautiful  face  and  form  are  admirable, 
and  just  as  good  as  they  are  admirable — just  as  good 
in  their  element  of  beauty.  They  are  good  for  that 
quality,  and  in  that  quality,  which  excites  our  admira- 


Miftakes  of  Penance.  93 

tion.  A  beautiful  bonnet,  a  beautiful  dress,  a  beautiful 
brooch  or  necklace,  are  all  admirable,  and  good  because 
they  are  admirable,  or  good  because  every  thing  admira* 
ble  is  necessarily  good.  A  family  over  which  the  father 
presides  with  tender  dignity,  and  in  which  the  mother 
moves  with  love's  divinest  ministry — where  the  faces 
of  innocent  children  are  shining,  while  their  voices 
make  music  sweeter  than  the  morning  songs  of  birds — 
is  admirable,  and  it  is  good  in  all  those  respects  which 
make  it  admirable.  A  well-dressed  man  or  woman  is 
admirable,  and  that  thing  is  good  in  itself  which  makes 
them  so.  A  man  who  carries  his  heart  in  his  hand, 
who  deals  both  justly  and  generously  by  men,  who 
bears  a  sunny  face  and  pleasant  words  into  society, 
whose  cultured  mind  enriches  freely  all  with  whom  it 
is  brought  into  relation,  who  has  abundant  charity  for 
the  weak  and  erring,  and  who  takes  life  and  what  it 
brings  him  contentedly,  is  an  admirable  man,  and  good 
in  all  the  points  which  make  him  admirable.  A  house 
that  presents  a  harmonious  and  handsome  interior  to 
the  eye  of  the  passenger,  and  whose  exterior  combines 
equal  convenience  and  elegance,  is  admirable,  and,  by 
that  token,  good. 

Now  these  very  simple  propositions  have  their 
correlatives,  which  it  is  not  necessary  to  set  down  in 
order,  any  further  than  fairly  to  illustrate  my  point. 
Things  that  are  not  admirable  are  not  good.  If  the 


94  Leffons  in  Life. 

dress  of  a  Shaker  is  not  admirable,  it  is  not  good.  If 
that  sort  of  life  which  is  led  in  a  cloister,  by  monks  or 
nuns,  is  not  admirable,  it  is  not  good.  If  a  man  who 
professes  to  be  a  Christian  lives  a  life  out  of  which  is 
shut  all  with  which  an  unsophisticated  humanity  sym- 
pathizes— a  life  barren  of  attractive  fruit — a  life  bare  in 
all  its  surroundings — a  life  with  no  genial  outflow  and 
expression — a  life  of  niggardly  negatives  rather  than  of 
generous  positives — then  that  life  is  not  admirable,  and 
if  it  be  not  admirable  it  cannot  be  good  in  those  respects. 
A  man  may  carry  along  with  such  a  life  as  this  a  spotless 
conscience  and  a  strict  devotion  to  apprehended  duty, 
and  these  may  be  admirable  and  good,  but  the  other 
characteristics  cannot  be  either ;  and  however  mi^ch  God 
may  approve  his  honest  heart  and  honest  endeavor,  He 
cannot  admire  the  style  of  manhood  in  which  they  have 
their  dull  and  difficult  illustration.  The  idea  that  I 
wish  definitely  to  convey  is  this  :  that  on  the  basis  of  a 
right  heart,  God  would  have  us  build  up  a  bright,  gen- 
erous, genial,  expressive  Christian  character,  and  use 
gratefully  and  gladly  all  those  things  Avhich  He  has 
prepared  to  make  life  cheerful  and  admirable.  I  believe 
a  saint  ought  to  have  a  better  tailor  than  a  sinner,  and 
be  in  all  manly  ways  a  better  fellow.  I  believe  a  true 
Christian  should  be  in  every  thing  that  constitutes  and 
belongs  to  a  man  the  most  admirable  man  in  the  world. 
I  have  an  idea  that  God  looks  with  the  same  kind 


Miftakes  of  Penance.  95 

of  contempt  on  the  prominent  characteristics  of  certain 
styles  of  Christian  men  and  "women,  that  men  of  the 
world  do.  There  is  nothing  admirable  in  cant  and 
whine,  and  nasal  psalm-singing,  and  men  whose  hearts 
are  li vers  and  whose  blood  is  bile ;  and  I  cannot  be- 
lieve that  He  blames  people  for  not  admiring  them, 
and  not  being  attracted  to  them.  I  do  not  believe 
that  an  admirable  Christian  life  is  repulsive  to  the  men 
of  the  world.  I  believe  that  wherever  the  human  mind 
recognizes  a  rounded,  chastened,  rich,  and  outspoken 
Christian  character,  whether  it  belong  to  manhood  or 
womanhood,  it  admires  it,  and  feels  attracted  to  it,  by 
the  degree  in  which  it  admires  it.  I  believe,  moreover, 
that  the  Christianity  which  discards  as  vanities  those 
things  which  God  has  provided  for  the  pleasure  of  His 
children,  and  mortifies  the  love  of  beauty,  and  adopts 
the  theory  that  God  is  pleased  with  penance,  and  de- 
grades, abuses,  and  traduces  the  body  to  win  greater 
sanctity  of  soul,  and  finds  a  sin  in  every  sweet  of  sense, 
is  a  bastard  Christianity.  God  fe  not  the  God  of  the 
dead,  but  of  the  living. 


LESSON  VII. 

THE    EIGHTS    OF    WOMAN. 

"  Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter ;  therefore  ye  soft  pipes  play  on ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared, 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tones." 

JOHN  KEATS. 

"  I  am  as  free  as  Nature  first  made  man." 

DEYDEN. 

"  What  she  wills  to  do  or  say 
Seems  wisest,  virtuousest,  discreetest,  best." 

MILTON. 

IT  was  the  sarcastic  remark  of  a  crusty  old  parson 
of  Connecticut  that  woman  has  the  undoubted 
right  to  shave  and  sing  bass,  if  she  chooses  to  do  so.  I 
question  the  right  of  bearded  man  to  shave  himself, 
and  I  will  not  concede  that  woman  has  a  superior  right, 
based  on  inferior  necessities ;  but  believing  that  man 
has  an  undoubted  right  to  sing  bass,  I  am  inclined  to 
accord  the  same  right  to  woman.  Woman  is  a  female 


The  Rights  of  Woman.  97 

man,  and  there  is  no  reason  that  I  know  of  why  she 
should  not  have  the  same  rights,  precisely,  that  a  male 
man  has.  I  claim  for  myself,  and  for  man,  the  privi- 
lege of  singing  treble,  under  certain  circumstances ; 
and  why  should  I  not  accord  to  woman  the  right  to 
sing  bass  ?  The  brave  old  chorals  of  Germany  would 
hardly  be  sung  with  much  effect  were  the  airs  denied 
to  the  masculine  voice,  yet  if  it  be  man's  prerogative 
to  sing  bass,  it  is  surely  woman's  to  sing  treble.  If  it 
be  usurpation  for  her  to  grope  among  the  gutturals  of 
the  masculine  clef,  it  is  gross  presumption  for  him  to 
attempt  to  leap  the  five-rail  fence  that  stands  between 
him  and  high  C.  I  put  this  consideration  forward  for 
the  purpose  of  stopping  every  caviller's  mouth  upon 
the  subject,  until  I  present  arguments  of  a  broader 
and  more  comprehensive  character,  in  support  of 
woman's  right  to  sing  bass. 

It  is  claimed  by  those  who  deny  woman's  right  to 
sing  bass  that  she  is  needed  for  the  treble  and  alto 
parts.  Needed  by  whom  ?  Needed  by  man  ?  But 
who  gave  man  the  right  to  set  up  his  needs  as  the  law 
of  woman's  life  ?  If  man  needs  treble  and  alto,  I  hope 
he  may  get  them.  He  has  the  undoubted  right  to  sing 
both  parts  to  suit  his  own  fancy,  or  to  hire  others  to  do 
it  for  him.  Man  needs  buttons  on  his  shirts,  and  clean 
linen,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  see  why  that  need 
defines  a  woman's  duty  in  any  respect.  Let  him  do  his 
5 


98  Leffons  in  Life. 

own  washing,  and  sew  on  his  own  buttons.  Suppose 
a  woman  should  need  to  have  hooks  and  eyes  sewed 
upon  her  dress,  as  some  of  them  do,  sometimes,  after 
taking  a  very  long  breath,  would  that  determine  it  to 
be  man's  duty  to  sew  them  on  ?  "  It  is  a  poor  rule 
that  will  not  work  both  ways."  This  is  one  of  the  il- 
lustrations of  man's  selfishness — that  he  sets  up  his 
needs  as  the  rule  by  which  the  rights  of  one-half  of 
the  human  race  are  to  be  determined. 

This  same  selfishness  of  man  will  demand  that  I 
reconsider  this  talk,  and  will  accuse  me  of  sophistry. 
It  will  declare  that  I  do  not  state  the  case  fairly.  It 
will  say  that  woman  needs  money  with  which  to  buy 
her  dresses  and  procure  her  food,  and  strong  hands  to 
labor  for  her  and  protect  her,  and  that  these  needs  do 
indeed  define  man's  duty  with  respect  to  her.  But  I 
place  all  this  on  the  ground  of  gallantry  and  humanity. 
Of  course,  we  are  all  very  glad  to  do  these  things,  you 
know, — we  who  have  human  feelings — but  woman  has 
no  right  to  them,  based  upon  her  need — particularly  if 
she  be  a  woman  who  insists,  as  I  do,  upon  her  inde- 
feasible right  to  sing  bass.  I  know  that  it  helps  things 
along  for  a  woman  to  look  after  a  man's  linen  and  but- 
tons, and  do  his  fine  work  generally,  because  she  seems 
to  have  a  kind  of  natural  knack  at  the  business.  I  am 
aware  that  it  is  exceedingly  pleasant  to  hear  a  woman 
sing  treble,  if  she  sings  it  well,  but  I  am  talking,  be  it 


The  Rights  of  Woman.  »  99 

remembered,  of  woman's  right  to  sing  bass.     Let  us 
stick  to  the  question. 

The  enemies  of  this  highest  among  the  rights  of 
woman  are  fond  of  alluding  to  the  fact  that  only  here 
and  there  a  woman  can  be  found  who  wishes  to  avail 
herself  of  her  right,  and  practically  to  enter  upon  the 
work  of  singing  bass.  The  large  majority  of  women 
prefer  to  sing  the  soprano,  while  a  few,  of  moderate 
views,  adopt  alto  as  a  kind  of  compromise.  But  what 
has  this  fact  to  do  with  the  matter  of  right  in  the 
premises?  Most  people  prefer  beef-steak  without 
onions,  but  I  never  knew  that  fact  to  be  brought  for- 
ward as  an  argument  against  the  right  of  a  man  to  eat 
it  with  onions..  It  is  possible,  indeed,  that  if  people  were 
more  accustomed  to  eating  beef-steak  with  onions,  or 
those  savory  vegetables  were  less  objectionable  in  their 
style  of  perfume,  there  would  be  a  majority  in  favor 
of  the  associated  luxuries.  "We  must  remember,  too,  in 
considering  this  aspect  of  the  question,  that  woman  is, 
to  a  certain  extent,  a  creature  of  whims.  She  is  ex- 
ceedingly apt  to  adopt  a  practice  because  it  is  fashiona- 
ble. If  it  were  fashionable  for  woman  to  sing  bass,  how 
long  would  it  be  before  the  lower  tones  would  find  full 
development  ?  And  how  long  would  it  be  before  the 
men  themselves  would  repeat  those  words  of  the  immor- 
tal bard : — 

"  Her  voice  was  ever  soft, 
Gentle  and  low, — An  excellent  thing  in  woman"? 


100  Leffons  in  Life. 

After  all,  this  sort  of  argument  against  woman's 
right  to  sing  bass  answers  itself.  If  the  preference  of 
women  generally  for  the  soprano  and  alto  be  a  good 
reason  for  their  confining  themselves  to  the  performance 
of  those  parts,  then  a  change  of  preference  would  be  a 
valid  reason  for  their  leaving  them.  If  individual  right 
goes  with  general  preference,  then  the  pillars  of  the 
universe  are  uprooted,  or  we  have  no  pillars  worth 
mentioning.  I  suppose  that  women  generally  prefer 
in-door  to  out-of-door  employments — labor  that  draws 
less  upon  muscle,  and  more  upon  ingenuity  and  deli- 
cate-fingered facility ;  but  that  settles  nothing  as  to 
their  right  to  engage  in  muscular  toils  in  the  open  air. 
The  German  peasant-woman  has  labored  out-of-doors 
for  many  generations.  The  result  has  been  the  gradual 
approach  to  each  other  of  her  hips  and  shoulders,  the 
extinguishment  of  that  portion  of  her  person  known 
as  the  waist,  and  some  noticeable  flatness  over  the  cere- 
bral organs ;  but  the  German  peasant-woman  has  her 
right,  and  that  is  worth  any  sacrifice,  you  know.  If 
she  prefers  hoeing  cabbages  to  spinning  flax,  who  shall 
hinder  her  ?  If  all  women  should  prefer  hoeing  cab- 
bages to  spinning  flax,  or  any  variety  of  yarn,  who 
shall  hinder  them?  So  far  as  man  is  concerned, 
woman  has  a  right  to  grow  her  shoulders  just  as  near 
her  hips,  and  wear  a  head  as  flat  as  she  pleases.  In 
short,  the  general  preference  of  women  with  respect  to 


The  Rights  of  Woman.  101 

any  tiling  decides  no  question  of  individual  right,  what- 
ever. 

I  will  not  admit  that  the  general  preference  of 
women  for  private  life  imposes  any  obligation  upon  any 
woman  to  abstain  from  public  life,  or  affects  in  any  way 
her  right  to  enter  upon  public  life.  I  am  aware  that  one 
would  not  like  to  have  one's  wife  or  sister  an  opera-singer, 
or  a  public  dancer,  or  a  preacher,  or  a  doctor  in  gene- 
ral practice,  or  a  circus-rider,  or  a  popular  lecturer,  or 
an  actress ;  but  I  am  talking  about  the  question  of 
right.  Most  women  would  shrink  from  war- — from  its 
fatigues,  its  dangers,  its  bloody  strife ;  but  Joan  of  Arc 
asserted  her  right  to  go  into  war ;  and  her  name  is 
engrossed  upon  the  scroll  of  fame.  All  women  have 
the  same  right  to  go  to  war  that  she  had.  I  confess 
that  I  should  like  to  see  a  regiment  of  women  six  feet 
high,  officered  by  women,  all  dressed  in  Balmorals  il- 
lustrating the  national  colors,  marching  to  battle  in  as 
close  order  as  the  peculiarity  of  their  garments  would 
permit,  and  accompanied  by  a  corps  of  cavalry  in  side- 
saddles. Such  an  assertion  of  woman's  right  would  be 
grand  beyond  description.  I  should  not  care  to  live 
on  very  intimate  terms  with  the  colonel  of  the  regi- 
ment, but  I  don't  know  as  that  has  any  thing  to  do  with 
this  question. 

I  was  talking,  however,  about  the  right  of  women 
to  sing  bass,  and  must  go  on.  It  is  declared  by  those 


102  Leffons  in  Life. 

who  oppose  this  right  that  woman  has  no  natural  organs 
and  aptitudes  for  bass.  This  is  the  strong-point  of  the 
enemy,  but  it  amounts  to  nothing.  If  woman  fails, 
apparently,  in  organs  and  aptitudes  for  this  part,  it  only 
shows  what  long  years  of  abuse  will  accomplish.  Let 
us  never  forget  in  this  discussion  that  woman  is  only 
a  female  man,  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  "  sex  of 
soul,"  and  that  woman's  vocal  organs  are  built  exactly 
like  man's — as  much  like  man's  as  her  hands  and  her 
feet  and  her  head  are  like  his — a  little  smaller,  perhaps, 
— that's  all.  It  is  a  familiar  fact,  I  presume,  that  the 
little  colts  born  of  South  American  dams  take  to  am- 
bling as  their  natural  step,  simply  because  the  men  of 
South  America  have  taught  the  fathers  and  mothers  of 
these  colts  to  amble  through  uncounted  generations. 
Now  in  North  America  we  train  horses  to  trot,  and 
the  consequence  is  that  amblers  are  scarce,  and  in  most 
cases  have  to  be  educated  to  their  gait.  This  is  the 
way  in  which  nature  adapts  herself  to  popular  want 
and  popular  usage.  The  large  variety  of  apples  which 
load  our  orchards  were  developed  from  the  insignificant 
crab,  and  the  peach  was  the  child  of  the  almond,  or 
the  almond  of  the  peach — I  have  forgotten  which. 
Now  I  suppose  (with  some  feeble  doubts  about  it)  that 
man  and  woman  started  exactly  together,  that  her 
singing  treble  better  than  she  does  bass  results  from 
usage,  and  that  her  singing  treble  rather  than  bass  was 


The  Rights  of  Woman.  103 

purely  a  matter  of  accident  at  first.  All  analogy 
teaches  me  that  if  she  had  begun  on  bass,  and  the  other 
part  had  been  given  to  man,  we  should  be  hearing  to- 
day of  Ma'lle  Patti,  "  the  charming  new  baritone,"  and 
"  the  magnificent  basso,"  Madame  Jenny  Lind  Gold- 
schmidt,  while  admiring  crowds  would  toss  flowers  to 
Carl  Formes,  "  the  unapproachable  soprano,"  or  Mario, 
"  the  king  of  contraltos." 

I  suppose  that  those  who  maintain  that  woman  has 
no  natural  organs  and  aptitudes  for  singing  bass,  would 
say  that  she  has  no  natural  organs  and  aptitudes  for 
boxing  and  playing  at  ball.  Just  because  woman  holds 
her  fists  the  wrong  side  up,  as  if  she  were  kneading 
bread  rather  than  flesh,  it  is  claimed  that  she  was  not 
made  for  the  "  manly  art  of  self-defence,"  and  from  the 
wholly  incompetent  facts  that  she  cannot  throw  a  ball 
three  feet  against  a  common  north-west  wind,  and  is 
not  as  fleet  as  a  deer,  it  is  judged  that  she  has  no  right 
to  engage  in  base-ball.  But  suppose  all  women  had 
been  accustomed  to  boxing  and  playing  ball  as  much 
as  the  men  have  been ;  would  they  not  have  arrived 
at  corresponding  excellence  ?  I  know  that  as  women 
are  now  (and  they  please  me  exceedingly)  they  have 
not  muscle  to  "  hit  from  the  shoulder  "  with  force  suf- 
ficient to  make  them  formidable  antagonists ;  and  I  am 
aware  that  they  lack  something  in  the  length  of  limb 
requisite  for  the  rapid  locomotion  of  the  ball-ground ; 


104  Leffons  in  Life. 

but  they  have  never  had  a  chance.  See  what  the 
washerwomen  have  done  for  themselves.  They  seem 
to  be  a  separate  race  of  beings,  for  they  all  have  large 
arms,  and  shoulders  that  would  do  honor  to  Tom  Sayers. 
I  have  seen  negro  slave  women  at  Avork  in  the  field, 
with  a  muscular  development  that  would  be  the  envy 
of  a  Bowery  boy.  The  washerwoman  and  the  field 
slave  show  what  can  be  done  by  cultivation.  I  know 
that  their  style  of  figure  is  not  quite  so  attractive  as  I 
have  seen,  and  I  know  that  wherever  there  is  an  ex- 
traordinary tax  upon  muscle  there  is  an  exti'aordinary 
repression  of  mind  and  blunting  of  the  sensibilities,  but 
it  must  be  remembered  that  we  are  talking  about 
rights,  now.  I  claim  and  maintain,  (I  may  as  well  come 
out  with  the  whole  of  it,)  that  a  woman  has  a  right  to 
do  any  thing  she  chooses  to  do,  with  perhaps  the  unim- 
portant exception  of  becoming  the  father  of  a  family. 

The  truth  is  that  women  have  never  had  a  fair 
chance.  They  can  do  any  thing  they  are  trained  to  do. 
The  proper  physical  culture  of  woman,  carried  on 
through  a  competent  number  of  generations,  would 
develop  her  beyond  all  our  present  conceptions.  She 
would  be  likely  to  arrive  at  a  high  condition  of  muscle 
and  a  low  condition  of  mind,  very  unlike  our  present 
idea  of  the  noblest  type  of  womanhood  ;  but  very  pos- 
sibly our  ideals  of  womanhood  are  conventional,  or  tradi- 
tional. She  has  hands,  and  has  a  right  to  use  them  ;  a 


The  Rights  of  Woman.  105 

tongue,  and  the  right  to  wag  it  in  her  own  way ;  pow- 
ers corresponding  to  those  of  man  in  all  important  re- 
spects, and  the  right  to  develop  and  employ  them 
according  to  her  taste  and  choice.  I  deny,  to  man, 
the  privilege  of  defining  the  rights  and  duties  of  woman. 
A  woman  is  mistress  of  her  own  actions  and  judge  of 
her  own  powers  and  aptitudes ;  and  if  any  woman 
thinks  that  she  can  do  a  man's  work  better  than  what 
society  considers  her  own,  then  she  has  an  undeniable 
right  to  do  it,  if  she  can  get  it  to  do,  and  is  willing  to 
accept  the  work  with  the  conditions  that  attend  it. 

I  am  a  firm  believer  in  "  woman's  rights  " — espe- 
cially her  right  to  do  as  she  pleases.  It  is  possible 
that,  before  the  law,  she  is  not  in  possession  of  all  her 
rights,  but  all  wrongs  in  this  direction  will  be  corrected 
as  time  progresses.  I  speak  particularly  at  this  time 
of  her  right  to  sing  bass,  because  it  is  a  representative 
right,  and  covers,  as  with  a  lid,  a  whole  chest  full  of 
others.  Yet  while  I  claim  this  right,  I  confess  that  I 
should  not  care  to  see  it  exercised  to  any  great  extent, 
for  I  think  that  treble  is,  by  all  odds,  the  finer  and 
more  attractive  part  in  music.  Is  it  worth  while  to 
exercise  the  right  of  singing  bass,  when  it  costs  a  good 
deal  to  get  up  a  voice  for  it,  and  when  treble  comes 
natural  and  easy,  and  is  very  much  pleasanter  to  the 
ear  ?  Bass  would  be  a  bad  thing  for  a  lullaby,  and 
could  only  silence  a  baby  by  scaring  it.  If  I  should 


106  Leffons  in  Life. 

have  committed  to  me  the  melodies  of  the  world,  I 
would  care  very  little  about  my  right  to  sing  those 
subordinate  parts  that  gather  around  them  in  obedient 
harmonies.  At  least,  I  think  I  would,  unless  some  up- 
start man  should  deny  my  right  to  sing  any  thing  but 
melodies.  If  it  were  committed  to  me  to  sing  like  a 
bird,  I  would  not  care,  I  think,  to  exercise  my  right  to 
roar  like  a  bull.  If  I  can  witch  the  ears  and  win  the 
hearts  of  men  and  women  by  doing  that  which  I  can 
do  easily  and  naturally  and  well,  then  I  shall  do  best 
not  to  exercise  my  right  to  do  that  which  I  can  only  do 
difficultly,  and  unnaturally,  and  ill. 

Woman,  in  my  apprehension,  is  the  mistress,  not 
alone  of  the  melody  of  music,  but  of  the  melody  of 
life.  Whatever  it  may  be  possible  to  do  by  cultivation 
and  a  long  course  of  development,  it  is  doubtful  whether 
a  woman  would  ever  sing  bass  well.  I  am  aware  that 
she  has  the  right,  and  the  organs,  but  I  question 
whether  her  bass  would  amount  to  any  thing — whether 
it  would  be  worth  singing.  When  women  talk  with 
me  about  their  right  to  vote,  and  their  right  to  prac- 
tise law,  and  their  right  to  engage  in  any  business  which 
usage  has  assigned  to  man,  I  say  "  yes — you  have  all 
those  rights."  I  never  dispute  with  them  at  all.  In- 
deed, you  see  how  I  have  put  myself  forward  as  the 
defender  of  these  same  rights ;  yet  I  should  be  sorry 
to  see  them  exercised  by  the  women  I  admire  and 


The  Rights  of  Woman.  107 

love.  It  is  all  very  well  to  say  that  the  presence  of 
woman  at  the  ballot-box  would  purify  it,  and  restrain 
the  manners  of  the  men  around  it ;  but  I  have  seen 
enough  of  the  world  to  learn  that  all  human  influence 
is  reciprocal  and  reactionary.  Man  and  the  ballot-box 
might  gain,  but  woman  would  lose,  and  men  and  the 
ballot-box  themselves  would  lose  in  the  long  run.  The 
ballot-box  is  the  bass,  and  it  should  be  man's  business 
to  sing  it,  while  woman  should  give  him  home  melody 
with  which  it  should  harmonize. 

In  the  matter  of  rights,  I  suppose  that  I  should  not 
differ  materially  with  any  strong-minded  woman ;  but 
I  have  always  observed  that  the  most  truly  lovable, 
humble,  pure-hearted,  God-fearing  and  humanity-loving 
women  of  my  acquaintance,  never  say  any  thing  about 
these  rights,  and  scorn  those  of  their  sex  who  do.  I 
have  never  known  a  woman  who  was  at  once  satisfied 
in  her  affections  and  discontented  with  her  woman's 
lot  and  her  woman's  work.  There  is  a  weak  place,  or 
a  wrong  place,  or  a  rotten  place,  in  the  character  or 
nature  of  every  woman  who  stands  and  howls  upon 
the  spot  where  her  Creator  placed  her,  and  neglects 
her  own  true  work  and  life  while  claiming  the  right  to 
do  the  work  and  live  the  life  of  man.  I  will  admit  all 
the  rights  that  such  a  woman  claims — all  that  I  my- 
self possess — if  she  will  let  me  alone,  and  keep  her  dis- 
tance from  me.  She  may  sing  bass,  but  I  do  not 


108  Leffons  in  Life. 

wish  to  hear  her.     She  is  repulsive  to  me.     She  offends 
me. 

I  believe  in  •women.  I  believe  they  arc  the  sweetest, 
purest,  most  unselfish,  best  part  of  the  human  race.  I 
have  no  doubt  on  this  subject,  whatever.  They  do 
sing  the  melody  in  all  human  life,  as  well  as  the  melody 
in  music.  They  carry  the  leading  part,  at  least  in  the 
sense  that  they  are  a  step  in  advance  of  us,  all  the  way 
in  the  journey  heavenward.  I  believe  that  they  cannot 
move  very  widely  out  of  the  sphere  which  they  now 
occupy,  and  remain  as  good  as  they  now  are ;  and  I 
deny  that  my  belief  rests  upon  any  sentimentality,  or 
jealousy,  or  any  other  weak  or  unworthy  basis.  A 
man  who  has  experienced  a  mother's  devotion,  a  wife's 
self-sacrificing  love,  and  a  daughter's  affection,  and  is 
grateful  for  all,  may  be  weakly  sentimental  about  some 
things,  but  not  about  women.  He  would  help  every 
woman  he  loves  to  the  exercise  of  all  the  rights  which 
hold  dignity  and  happiness  for  her.  He  would  fight 
that  she  might  have  those  rights,  if  necessary ;  but  he 
would  rather  have  her  lose  her  voice  entirely,  than 
to  hear  her  sound  a  bass  note  so  long  as  a  demi-semi- 
quaver. 


LESSON  VIII. 

AMERICAN   PUBLIC   EDUCATION. 

"  Keen  are  the  pangs 

Advancement  often  brings.    To  be  secure, 
Be  humble.    To  be  happy,  be  content" 

JAMES  HTTKDIS. 

"For  not  that  which  men  covet  most  is  best; 
Nor  that  thing  worst  which  men  do  most  refuse. 
But  fittest  is  that  each  contented  rest 
"With  that  they  hold."  SPENSEB. 

"  Men  have  different  spheres.  It  is  for  some  to  evolve  great  moral  truths, 
as  the  Heavens  evolve  stars,  to  guide  the  sailor  on  the  sea  and  the  traveller  on 
the  desert ;  and  it  is  for  some,  like  the  sailor  and  the  traveller,  simply  to  be 
guided." — BEECHES. 

A  VENERABLE  gentleman  who  once  occupied  a 
prominent  position  in  a  leading  Hew  England 
college,  was  remarking  recently  upon  the  difficulty  which 
he  experienced  in  obtaining  servants  who  would  attend 
to  their  duties.  He  had  just  dismissed  a  girl  of  sixteen, 
who  was  so  much  "  above  her  business  "  as  to  be  intol- 
erable. The  girl's  father,  who  was  an  Englishman, 


110  Leffons  in  Life. 

called  upon  him  for  an  explanation.  The  employer  told 
his  story,  every  word  of  which  the  father  received 
without  question,  and  then  remarked,  with  considerable 
vehemence :  "  It  is  all  owing  to  those  cursed  public 
schools."  The  father  retired,  and  the  old  professor  sat 
down  and  thought  about  it ;  and  the  result  of  his  think- 
ing did  not  differ  materially  from  that  of  the  father. 
It  was  not,  of  course,  that  there  was  any  thing  in  the 
studies  pursued  which  had  tended  to  unfit  the  girl  for 
her  duties.  It  was  very  possible  indeed  for  the  girl  to 
have  been  a  better  servant  in  consequence  of  her  intel- 
ligence. There  was  nothing  in  English  grammar  or 
the  multiplication  table  to  produce  insubordination  and 
discontent.  There  was  nothing  in  the  whole  case  that 
tended  to  condemn  public  schools,  as  such  ;  but  it  was 
the  spirit  inculcated  by  the  teachers  of  public  schools, 
which  had  spoiled  this  girl  for  her  place,  and  which  has 
spoiled,  and  is  still  spoiling,  thousands  of  others. 

Let  us  look  for  a  moment  into  the  influence  of  such 
a  motto  as  the  following,  written  over  a  school-house 
door — always  before  the  eyes  of  the  pupils,  and  always 
alluded  to  by  school  committees  and  visitors  who  are 
invited  to  "  make  a  few  remarks  "  : 

"  Nothing  is  impossible  to  him  who  wills." 

This  abominable  lie  is  placed  before  a  room  full  of 
children  and  youth,  of  widely  varying  capacities,  and 


American  Public  Education.  in 

great  diversity  of  circumstances.  They  are  called  upon 
to  look  at  it,  and  believe  in  it.  Suppose  a  girl  of  hum- 
ble mental  abilities  and  humble  circumstances  looks  at 
this  motto,  and  says :  " I  'will'  be  a  lady.  I  'will'  be 
independent.  I  'will 'be  subject  to  no  man's  or  wo- 
man's bidding."  Under  these  circumstances,  the  girl's 
father,  who  is  poor,  removes  her  from  school,  and  tells 
her  that  she  must  earn  her  living.  Now  I  ask  what 
kind  of  a  spirit  she  can  carry  into  her  service,  except 
that  of  surly  and  impudent  discontent  ?  She  has  been 
associating  in  school,  perhaps,  with  girls  whom  she  is 
to  serve  in  the  family  she  enters.  Has  she  not  been 
made  unfit  for  her  place  by  the  influences  of  the  public 
school  ?  Have  not  her  comfort  and  her  happiness  been 
spoiled  by  those  influences  ?  Is  her  reluctant  service 
of  any  value  to  those  who  pay  her  the  wages  of  her 
labor  ? 

It  is  safe,  at  least,  to  make  the  proposition  that  pub- 
lic schools  are  a  curse  to  all  the  youth  whom  they  unfit 
for  their  proper  places  in  the  world.  It  is  the  favorite 
theory  of  teachers  that  every  man  can  make  of  himself 
any  thing  that  he  really  chooses  to  make.  They  resort 
to  this  theory  to  rouse  the  ambition  of  their  more  slug- 
gish pupils,  and  thus  get  more  study  out  of  them.  I 
have  known  entire  schools  instructed  to  aim  at  the 
highest  places  in  society,  and  the  most  exalted  offices 
of  life.  I  have  known  enthusiastic  old  fools  who  made 


112  Leffons  in  Life. 

it  their  principal  business  to  go  from  school  to  school, 
and  talk  such  stuff  to  the  pupils  as  would  tend  to  unfit 
every  one  of  humble  circumstances  and  slender  possi- 
bilities for  the  life  that  lay  before  him.  The  fact  is 
persistently  ignored,  in  many  of  these  schools,  estab- 
lished emphatically  for  the  education  of  the  people,  that 
the  majority  of  the  places  in  this  world  are  subordinate 
and  low  places.  Every  boy  and  girl  is  taught  to  "  be 
something  "  in  the  world,  which  would  be  very  well  if 
being  "  something "  were  being  what  God  intended 
they  should  be  ;  but  when  being  "something"  involves 
the  transformation  of  what  God  intended  should  be  a 
respectable  shoemaker  into  a  very  indifferent  and  a 
very  slow  minister  of  the  Gospel,  the  harmful  and  even 
the  ridiculous  character  of  the  instruction  becomes 
apparent. 

f  There  are  two  classes  of  evil  results  attending  the  in- 
culcation of  these  favorite  doctrines  of  the  school  teach- 
ers— first,  the  unfitting  of  men  and  women  for  humble 
places ;  and,  second,  the  impulsion  of  men  of  feeble  pow- 
er into  high  places,  for  the  duties  of  which  they  have 
neither  natural  nor  acquired  fitness.  There  are  no 
longer  any  American  girls  who  go  out  to  service  in 
families.  They  went  into  mills  from  the  chamber  and 
the  kitchen,  but  now  they  have  left  the  mills,  and  their 
places  are  filled  by  Scotch  and  Irish  girls.  Why  is 
this?  Is  it  because  that  among  the  American  girls 


American  Public  Education.  113 

there  are  none  of  poverty,  and  of  humble  powers  ?  Is 
it  because  they  are  not  wanted  ?  Or  is  it  because  they 
have  become  unfitted  for  such  services  as  "these,  and 
feel  above  them  ?  Is  it  not  because  they  have  become 
possessed  of  notions  that  -would  render  them  uncomfort- 
able in  family  service,  and  render  any  family  they  might 
serve  uncomfortable  ?  An  American  servant,  who  good- 
naturedly  accepts  her  condition,  and  knows  and  loves 
her  place,  who  is  willing  to  acknowledge  that  she  has  a 
mistress,  and  who  enters  into  her  department  of  the  fam- 
ily life  as  a  harmonious  and  happy  member,  may  exist, 
but  I  do  not  know  her.  People  have  ceased  inquiring  for 
American  servants.  They  would  like  them,  generally, 
because  they  are  intelligent  and  Protestant,  but  they 
cannot  get  them  because  they  are  unwilling  to  accept 
senrice,  and  the  obligations  and  conditions  it  imposes. 
Where  all  the  American  girls  are,  I  do  not  know.  I 
can  remember  the  time  when  thrifty  farmers,  mechan- 
ics, and  tradesmen  took  wives  from  the  kitchens  of  gen- 
tlemen where  they  were  employed, — good,  intelligent, 
self-respectful  women  they  were,  too — who  became 
modest  mistresses  of  thrifty  families  afterward ; — but 
that  is  all  done  with  now.  Under  the  present  mode 
of  education,  nobody  is  fitted  for  a  low  place,  and 
everybody  is  taught  to  look  for  a  high  one. 

If  we  go  into  a  school  exhibition,  our  ears  are  deaf- 
ened   by  declamation  addressed    to   ambition.     The 


ill  Leffons  in  Life. 

boys  have  sought  out  from  literature  every  stirring  ap- 
peal to  effort,  and  every  extravagant  promise  of  re- 
ward. The  compositions  of  the  girls  are  of  the  same 
general  tone.  We  hear  of  "  infinite  yearnings,"  from 
the  lips  of  girls  who  do  not  know  enough  to  make  a 
pudding,  and  of  being  polished  "  after  the  similitude  of 
a  palace  "  from  those  who  do  not  comprehend  the  com- 
monest duties  of  life.  Every  thing  is  on  the  high-pres- 
sure principle.  The  boys,  all  of  them,  have  the  gen- 
eral idea  that  every  thing  that  is  necessary  to  become 
great  men  is  to  try  for  it ;  and  each  one  supposes  it 
possible  for  him  to  become  Governor  of  the  State,  or 
President  of  the  Union.  The  idea  of  being  educated 
to  fill  a  humble  office  in  life  is  hardly  thought  of,  and 
every  bumpkin  who  has  a  memory  sufficient  for  the 
words  repeats  the  stanza : — 

"Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  U3 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time." 

There  is  a  fine  ring  to  this  familiar  quatrain  of  Mr. 
Longfellow,  but  it  is  nothing  more  than  a  musical 
cheat.  It  sounds  like  truth,  but  it  is  a  lie.  The  lives 
of  great  men  all  remind  us  that  they  have  made  their 
own  memory  sublime,  but  they  do  not  assure  us  at  all 
that  we  can  leave  footprints  like  theirs  behind  us.  If 
you  do  not  believe  it,  go  to  the  cemetery  yonder. 


American  Public  Education.  115 

There  they  lie — ten  thousand  upturned  faces — ten  thou- 
sand breathless  bosoms.  There  was-  a  time  when  fire 
flashed  in  those  vacant  orbits,  and  warm  ambitions 
pulsed  in  those  bosoms.  Dreams  of  fame  and  power 
once  haunted  those  hollows  skulls.  Those  little  piles 
of  bones  that  once  were  feet  ran  swiftly  and  determin- 
edly through  forty,  fifty,  sixty,  seventy  years  of  life ; 
but  where  are  the  prints  they  left  ?  "  He  lived — he 
died — he  was  buried" — is  all  that  the  headstone  tells 
us.  We  move  among  the  monuments,  we  see  the  sculp- 
ture, but  no  voice  comes  to  us  to  say  that  the  sleepers 
are  remembered  for  any  thing  they  ever  did.  Natural 
affection  pays  its  tribute  to  its  departed  object,  a  gen- 
eration passes  by,  the  stone  grows  gray,  and  the  man 
has  ceased  to  be,  and  is  to  the  world  as  if  he  had  never 
lived.  Why  is  it  that  no  more  have  left  a  name  be- 
hind them?  Simply  because  they  were  not  endowed 
by  their  Maker  with  the  power  to  do  it,  and  because 
the  offices  of  life  are  mainly  humble,  requiring  only 
humble  powers  for  their  fulfilment.  The  cemeteries 
of  one  hundred  years  hence  will  be  like  those  of  to-day. 
Of  all  those  now  in  the  schools  of  this  country,  dream- 
ing of  fame,  not  one  in  twenty  thousand  will  be  heard 
of  then, — not  one  in  twenty  thousand  will  have  left  a 
footprint  behind  him. 

Now  I  believe  that  a  school,  in  order  to  be  a  good 
one,  should  be  one  that  will  fit  men  and  women,  in  the 


116  Leflbns  in  Life. 

best  way,  for  the  humble  positions  that  the  great  mass 
of  them  must  necessarily  occupy  in  life.  It  is  not  ne- 
cessary that  boys  and  girls  be  taught  any  less  than 
they  are  taught  now.  They  should  receive  more  prac- 
tical knowledge  than  they  do  now,  without  a  doubt, 
and  less  of  that  which  is  simply  ornamental,  but  they 
cannot  know  too  much.  An  intelligent  gardener  is 
better  than  a  clod-hopper,  and  an  educated  nurse  is 
better  than  an  ignorant  one ;  but  if  the  gardener  and 
the  nurse  have  been  spoiled  for  their  business  and 
their  condition,  by  the  sentiments  which  they  have  im- 
bibed with  their  knowledge,  they  are  made  uncomfort- 
able to  themselves,  and  to  those  whom  they  serve.  I 
do  not  care  how  much  knowledge  a  man  may  have 
acquired  in  school,  that  school  has  been  a  curse  to  him 
if  its  influence  has  been  to  make  him  unhappy  in  his 
place,  and  to  fill  him  with  futile  ambitions. 

The  country  has  great  reason  to  lament  the  effect  of 
the  kind  of  instruction  upon  which  I  have  remarked. 
The  universal  greed  for  office  is  nothing  but  an  indica- 
tion of  the  appetite  for  distinction  which  has  been  dili- 
gently fed  from  childhood.  It  is  astonishing  to  see  the 
rush  for  office  on  the  occasion  of  the  change  of  a  State 
or  National  Administration.  Men  will  leave  quiet  and 
remunerative  employments,  .and  subject  themselves  to 
mean  humiliations,  simply  to  get  their  names  into  a 
newspaper,  and  to  achieve  a  little  official  importance 


American  Public  Education.  117 

and  social  distinction.  This  desire  for  distinction  seems 
to  run  through  the  whole  social  body,  as  a  kind  of 
moral  scrofula,  developing  itself  in  various  ways,  accord- 
ing to  circumstances  and  peculiarities  of  constitution. 
The  consequence  is  that  politics  have  become  the  pursuit 
of  small  men,  and  we  no  longer  have  an  opportunity  to 
put  the  best  men  into  office.  The  scramble  for  place 
among  fools  is  so  great  and  so  successful,  that  men  of 
dignity  and  modesty  retire  from  the  field  in  disgust. 
Everybody  wants  to  "  be  something,"  and  in  order  to  be 
something,  everbody  must  leave  his  proper  place  in  the 
world,  and  assume  a  position  which  God  never  intended 
he  should  fill.  Look  in  upon  a  State  legislature  once, 
and  you  will  find  sufficient  illustration  of  my  meaning. 
Not  one  man  in  five  of  the  whole  number  possesses  the 
first  qualification  for  making  the  laws  of  a  State,  and 
half  of  them  never  read  the  constitution  of  the  country. 
I  mean  no  contempt  for  the  good,  honest  men  of  whom 
our  State  legislatures  are  principally  composed,  but  I 
wish  simply  to  say  that  there  is  nothing  in  their  qual- 
ity of  mind,  habits  of  thought,  intellectual  power,  or 
style  of  pursuits  that  fits  them  for  the  great  and  mo- 
mentous functions  of  legislation.  They  are  there,  a  set 
of  "  nobodies,"  mainly  for  the  purpose  of  becoming 
"somebodies,"  and  not  for  any  object  connected  with 
the  good  of  the  State. 

Somehow,  all  the  students  in  all  our  schools  get  the 


118  Leflbns  in  Life. 

idea,  that  a  man  in  order  to  be  "  somebody  "  must  be 
in  public  life.  Now  think  of  the  fact  that  the  millions 
attending  school  in  this  country  have  in  some  "way 
acquired  this  idea,  and  that  only  one  in  every  one 
thousand  of  these  is  either  needed  in  public  life,  or  can 
win  success  there.  Let  this  fact  be  realized,  and  it  is 
easy  to  see  that  the  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  will 
feel  that  they  are  somehow  cheated  out  of  their  birth- 
right. They  desired  to  be  in  public  life,  and  be  "  some- 
body," but  they  are  not,  and  so  their  life  grows  tame 
and  tasteless  to  them.  They  are  disappointed.  The 
men  solace  themselves  with  a  petty  justice's  commis- 
sion, or  a  town  office  of  some  kind,  and  the  women — 
some  of  them — talk  about  "  woman's  rights,"  and  make 
themselves  notorious  and  ridiculous  at  public  meetings. 
I  think  women  have  rights  which  they  do  not  at  pres- 
ent enjoy,  but  I  have  very  little  confidence  in  the  mo- 
tives of  their  petticoated  champions,  who  court  mobs,  de- 
light in  notoriety,  and  glory  in  their  opportunity  to 
burst  away  from  private  life,  and  be  recognized  by  the 
public  as  "somebodies."  I  insist  on  this: — that  pri- 
vate and  even  obscure  life  is  the  normal  condition  of 
the  great  multitude  of  men  and  women  in  this  world; 
and  that,  to  serve  this  private  life,  public  life  is  insti- 
tuted. Public  life  has  no  legitimate  significance  save 
as  it  is  related  to  the  service  of  private  life.  It  re- 
quires peculiar  talents  and  peculiar  education,  and 


American  Public  Education.  119 

brings  with  it  peculiar  trials ;  and  the  man  best  fitted 
for  it  would  be  the  last  man  confidently  to  assert  his 
fitness  for  it. 

Thousands  seek  to  become  "  somebodies"  through 
the  avenues  of  professional  life ;  and  so  professional 
life  is  full  of  "  nobodies."  The  pulpit  is  crowded  with 
goodish  "  nobodies  " — men  who  have  no  power — no 
unction — no  mission.  They  strain  their  brains  to  write 
common-places,  and  wear  themselves  out  repeating  the 
rant  of  their  sect  and  the  cant  of  their  schools.  The 
bar  is  cursed  with  "  nobodies"  as  much  as  the  pulpit. 
The  lawyers  are  few  ;  the  pettifoggers  are  many.  The 
bar,  more  than  any  other  medium,  is  that  through 
which  the  ambitious  youth  of  the  country  seek  to  attain 
political  eminence.  Thousands  go  into  the  study  of 
law,  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  tBe  profession,  as  for 
the  sake  of  the  advantages  it  is  supposed  to  give  them 
for  political  preferment.  An  ambitious  boy  who  has 
taken  it  into  his  head  to  be  "  somebody,"  always  studies 
law  ;  and  as  soon  as  he  is  "  admitted  to  the  bar  "  he  is 
ready  to  begin  his  political  scheming.  Multitudes  of 
lawyers  are  a  disgrace  to  their  profession,  and  a  curse 
to  their  country.  They  lack  the  brains  necessary  to 
make  them  respectable,  and  the  morals  requisite  for 
good  neighborhood.  They  live  on  quarrels,  and  breed 
them  that  they  may  live.  They  have  spoiled  them- 
selves for  private  life,  and  they  spoil  the  private  life 


120  Leflbns  in  Life. 

around  them.  As  for  the  medical  profession,  I  tremble 
to  think  how  many  enter  it  because  they  have  neither 
piety  enough  for  preaching,  nor  brains  enough  to  prac- 
tice law.  When  I  think  of  the  great  army  of  little  men 
that  is  yearly  commissioned  to  go  forth  into  the  world 
with  a  case  of  sharp  knives  in  one  hand,  and  a  maga- 
zine of  drugs  in  the  other,  I  heave  a  sigh  for  the  human 
race.  Especially  is  all  this  lamentable  when  we  remem- 
*ber  that  it  involves  the  spoiling  of  thousands  of  good 
farmers  and  mechanics,  to  make  poor  professional  men, 
while  those  who  would  make  good  professional  men 
are  obliged  to  attend  to  the  simple  duties  of  life,  and 
submit  to  preaching  that  neither  feeds  nor  stimulates 
them,  and  medicine  that  kills  or  fails  to  cure  them. 

There  must  be  something  radically  wrong  in  our 
educational  system,  when  youth  are  generally  unfitted 
for  the  station  which  they  are  to  occupy,  or  are  forced 
into  professions  for  which  they  have  no  natural  fitness. 
The  truth  is  that  the  stuff  talked  to  boys  and  girls 
alike,  about  "  aiming  high,"  and  the  assurances  given 
them,  indiscriminately,  that  they  can  be  any  thing  that 
they  choose  to  become,  are  essential  nuisances.  Our 
children  all  go  to  the  public  schools.  They  are  all 
taught  these  things.  They  all  go  out  into  the  world 
with  high  notions,  and  find  it  impossible  to  content 
themselves  with  their  lot.  They  had  hoped  to  realize 
in  life  that  which  had  been  promised  them  in  school, 


American  Public  Education.  121 

but  all  their  dreams  have  faded,  and  left  them  disap- 
pointed and  unhappy.  They  envy  those  whom  they 
have  been  taught  to  consider  above  them,  and  learn 
to  count  their  own  lives  a  failure.  Girls  starve  in  a 
mean  poverty,  or  do  worse,  because  they  are  too  proud 
to  work  in  a  chamber,  or  go  into  a  shop.  American 
servants  are  obsolete,  all  common  employments  are  at 
a  discount,  the  professions  are  crowded  to  overflowing, 
the  country  throngs  with  demagogues,  and  a  general 
discontent  with  a  humble  lot  prevails,  simply  because 
the  youth  of  America  have  had  the  idea  drilled  into 
them  that  to  be  in  private  life,  in  whatever  condition, 
is  to  be,  in  some  sense,  a  "  nobody."  It  is  possible 
that  the  schools  are  not  exclusively  to  blame  for  this 
state  of  things,  and  that  our  political  harangues,  and 
even  our  political  institutions,  have  something  to  do 
with  it. 

What  we  greatly  need  in  this  country  is  the  incul- 
cation of  soberer  views  of  life.  Boys  and  girls  are 
bred  to  discontent.  Everybody  is  after  a  high  place, 
and  nearly  everybody  fails  to  get  one ;  and,  failing, 
loses  heart,  temper,  and  content.  The  multitude  dress 
beyond  their  means,  and  live  beyond  their  necessities, 
to  keep  up  a  show  of  being  what  they  are  not.  Farm- 
ers'  daughters  do  not  love  to  become  farmers'  wives, 
and  even  their  fathers  and  mothers  stimulate  their 
ambition  to  exchange  their  station  for  one  which  stands 
6 


122  Leffons  in  Life. 

higher  in  the  world's  estimation.  Humble  employ- 
ments arc  held  in  contempt,  and  humble  powers  are 
everywhere  making  high  employments  contemptible. 
Our  children  need  to  be  educated  to  fill,  in  Christian 
humility,  the  subordinate  offices  of  life  which  they  must 
fill,  and  taught  to  respect  humble  callings,  and  to  beau- 
tify and  glorify  them  by  lives  of  contented  and  glad 
industry.  When  public  schools  accomplish  an  end  so 
desirable  as  this,  they  will  fulfil  their  mission,  and  they 
will  not  before.  I  seriously  doubt  whether  one  school 
in  a  hundred,  public  or  private,  comprehends  its  duty 
in  this  particular.  They  fail  to  inculcate  the  idea  that 
the  majority  of  the  offices  of  h'fe  arc  humble,  that  the 
powers  of  the  majority  of  the  youth  which  they  contain 
have  relation  to  those  offices,  that  no  man  is  respect- 
able when  he  is  out  of  his  place,  and  that  half  of  the 
unhappiness  of  the  world  grows  out  of  the  fact,  that, 
from  distorted  views  of  life,  men  arc  in  places  where 
they  do  not  belong.  Let  us  have  this  thing  altogether 
reformed. 


LESSON  IX. 

PEBVEESENESS. 

"  Because  she's  constant,  he  will  change, 

And  kindest  glances  coldly  meet, 

And  all  the  time  he  seems  so  strange, 

His  soul  is  fawning  at  her  feet." 

COVENTBY  PATMORE. 

"All  that  we  seem  to  think  of  is  to  manage  matters  so  as  to  do  as  little  good 
and  plague  and  disappoint  as  many  people  as  possible." — HAZLITT. 

r  seems  to  me,  either  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
luman  nature  in  a  pig,  or  that  there  is  a  great  deal 
of  pig  in  human  nature.  I  find  myself  always  sympa- 
thizing with  a  pig  that  wishes  to  go  in  an  opposite 
direction  to  that  in  which  its  owner  would  drive  it.  It 
would  be  a  sufficient  reason  for  me  to  desire  to  go  east- 
ward, that  a  man  was  behind  me,  with  an  oath  in  his 
mouth  and  a  very  heavy  boot  on  his  foot,  endeavoring 
to  drive  me  westward.  We  are  jealous  of  our  freedom. 
We  naturally  rise  in  opposition  to  a  will  that  under- 


124  Leflbns  in  Life. 

takes  to  command  our  movements.  This  is  not  the 
result  of  education  at  all ;  it  is  pure  human  nature. 
Command  a  child — who  shall  be  only  old  enough  to 
understand  you — to  refrain  from  some  special  act,  and 
you  excite  in  his  heart  a  desire  to  do  that  act ;  and  he 
will  have,  nine  times  in  ten,  no  reason  for  his  desire  to 
do  it  but  your  command  that  he  shall  not.  The  young- 
est human  soul  that  has  a  will  at  all,  takes  the  first 
occasion  to  declare  its  independence. 

Now,  I  believe  this  principle  in  human  nature  to 
be,  in  itself,  good.  It  is  that  which  declares  a  man's 
right  to  himself — that  which  asserts  personal  liberty  in 
thought,  will,  and  movement.  I  believe  it  existed  in 
Adam  and  Eve,  and  that  it  is  more  than  likely  that  the 
tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  was  despoiled 
because  our  beautiful  great-grandmother,  (for  whom  I 
confess  much  sympathy  and  affection,)  was  forbidden 
to  touch  it.  It  is  a  principle  which  should  always  be 
carefully  distinguished  from  perverseness,  in  all  our 
dealings  with  young  and  old,  and  in  all  our  estimates 
of  human  character.  When  a  child  obeys  a  man,  or 
when  one  man  obeys  another,  it  should  always  be  for 
good  and  sufficient  reason.  Neither  child  nor  man 
should  be  expected  to  surrender  his  right  to  himself 
without  the  presentation  to  him  of  the  proper  motive. 
"When,  yielding  to  this  motive,  the  soul  consents  to  be 
directed  or  led,  it  becomes  obedient.  Compulsion  may 


Perverfenef's.  125 


secure  conformity,  but  never  obedience.  It'  I,  as  a  child 
or  man,  am  to  yield  myself  to  the  direction  of  any  other 
man,  that  man  is  bound  to  present  to  me  an  adequate 
motive  for  the  surrender.  God  throws  upon  me  per- 
sonal responsibility — gives  me  to  myself- — and  no  man, 
parent  or  otherwise,  can  make  me  truly  obedient  with- 
out giving  me  the  motive  for  obedience.  When  a  child 
or  a  man  fails  to  yield  to  the  legitimate  motives  of 
obedience,  he  is  perverse,  and  it  is  about  perverseness 
in  some  of  its  forms  of  manifestation  that  I  propose  to 
talk  in  this  article. 

At  starting,  I  must  give  perverseness  a  somewhat 
broader  meaning  than  that  thus  far  indicated.  I  will 
say  that  that  person  is  perverse  who,  from  vanity,  or 
pride  of  opinion  and  will,  or  malice,  or  any  mean  con- 
sideration, refuses  to  yield  his  conduct  and  himself  to 
those  motives  and  influences  which  his  reason  and  con- 
science recognize  to  be  pure  and  good  and  true.  In 
its  least  aggravated  form,  perhaps,  we  find  it  among 
lovers.  "Women  will  sometimes  persistently  ignore  a 
passion  which  they  know  has  taken  full  possession  of 
them,  and  grieve  the  heart  that  loves  them  by  a  cold- 
ness and  indifference  which  they  do  not  feel  at  all. 
Rather  than  acknowledge  their  affection  for  one  whose 
loss  would  kill  them,  or,  what  would  be  the  same  thing, 
kill  the  world  for  them,  they  have  lied,  grown  sick,  and 
gone  nearly  insane.  This  is  a  perverseness  very  uncom- 


126  Leffons  in  Life. 

mon.  Sometimes  lovers  have  been  very  tender  and 
devoted  so  long  as  a  doubt  of  ultimate  mutual  posses- 
sion remained  to  give  zest  to  their  passion,  but  the 
moment  this  doubt  has  been  removed,  one  or  the  other 
has  become  incomprehensibly  indifferent. 

I  have  noticed  that  very  few  married  pairs  are 
matches  in  the  matter  of  warmth  and  expression  of 
passion  between  the  parties.  The  man  will  be  all  de- 
votion and  tenderness — brimming  with  expressions  of 
affection  and  exhibitions  of  fondness,  and  the  woman 
all  coolness  and  passivity,  or  (which  is  much  more  com- 
mon) the  woman  will  be  active  in  expression,  lavish- 
ing caresses  and  tendernesses  upon  a  man  who  very 
possibly  grows  harder  and  colder  with  every  delicate 
proof  that  the  whole  wealth  of  his  wife's  nature  is 
poured  at  his  feet,  as  a  libation  upon  an  altar.  It  is 
here  that  we  see  some  of  the  strangest  cases  of  per- 
verseness  that  it  is  possible  to  conceive.  I  know  men 
who  are  not  bad  men — who,  I  suppose,  really  love  and 
respect  their  wives — and  who  would  deny  themselves 
even  to  heroism  to  give  them  the  comforts  and  luxuries 
of  life,  yet  who  find  themselves  moved  to  reject  with 
poorly-covered  scorn,  and  almost  to  resent,  the  varied 
expressions  of  affection  to  which  those  wives  give  utter- 
ance. I  know  wives  who  long  to  pour  their  hearts  into 
the  hearts  of  their  husbands,  and  to  get  sympathetic 
and  fitting  response,  but  who  are  never  allowed  to  do 


Perverfenefs.  127 

it.  They  live  a  constrained,  suppressed,  unsatisfied 
life.  They  absolutely  pine  for  the  privilege  of  saying 
freely  what  they  feel,  in  all  love's  varied  languages, 
toward  men  who  love  them,  but  who  grow  harder  with 
every  approach  of  tenderness  and  colder  with  every 
warm,  invading  breath.  A  shower  that  purifies  the 
atmosphere,  and  refreshes  the  face  of  heaven  itself, 
sours  cream,  just  as  love's  sweetest  expression  sours 
these  men. 

I  have  known  wives  to  walk  through  such  an  ex- 
perience as  this  into  a  condition  of  abject  slavery — to 
waste  their  affection  without  return,  until  they  have 
become  poor,  and  spiritless,  and  mean.  I  have  known 
them  to  lose  their  will — to  become  the  mere  dependent 
mistresses  of  their  husbands — to  be  creeping  cravens 
in  dwellings  where  it  should  be  their  privilege  to  move 
as  radiant  queens.  I  have  known  them  thrown  back 
upon  themselves,  until  they  have  become  bitter  railers 
against  their  husbands — uncomfortable  companions — 
openly  and  shamelessly  flouting  their  affection.  I  do 
not  know  what  to  make  of  the  perverseness  which  in- 
duces a  man  to  repel  the  advances  of  a  heart  which 
worships  him,  and  to  become  hard  and  tyrannical  in 
the  degree  by  which  that  heart  seeks  to  express  its 
affection  for  him.  There  are  husbands  who  would  take 
the  declaration  that  they  do  not  love  their  wives  as  an 
insult,  yet  who  hold  the  woman  who  loves  them  in  fear 


128  Leflbns  in  Life. 

and  resti'aint  through  their  whole  life.  I  know  wives 
who  move  about  their  houses  with  a  trembling  regard 
to  the  moods  and  notions  of  their  husbands — wives 
who  have  no  more  liberty  than  slaves,  who  never  spend 
a  cent  of  money  without  a  feeling  of  guilt,  and  who 
never  give  an  order  about  the  house  without  the  same 
doubt  of  their  authority  that  they  would  have  if  they 
were  only  housekeepers,  employed  at  a  very  economical 
salary.  I  can  think  of  no  proper  punishment  for  such 
husbands  except  daily  ducking  in  a  horse-pond,  until 
reformation.  Yet  these  asses  are  so  unconscious  of 
their  detestable  habits  of  feeling  and  life,  that,  prob- 
ably, not  one  of  them  who  reads  this  will  think  that  I 
mean  him,  but  will  wonder  where  I  have  lived  to  fall 
in  with  such  outlandish  people. 

The  most  precious  possession  that  ever  comes  to  a 
man  in  this  world  is  a  woman's  heart.  "Why  some 
graceful  and  most  amiable  women  whom  I  know  will 
pei'sist  in  loving  some  men  whom  I  also  know,  is  more 
than  I  know.  I  will  not  call  their  love  an  exhibition 
of  perverseness,  though  it  looks  like  it ;  but  that  these 
men  with  these  rich,  sweet  hearts  in  their  hands,  grow 
sour  and  snappish,  and  surly  and  tyrannical  and  exact- 
ing, is  the  most  unaccountable  thing  in  the  world.  If 
a  pig  will  not  allow  himself  to  be  driven,  he  will  follow 
a  man  who  offers'  him  corn,  and  he  will  eat  the  corn, 
even  though  he  puts  his  feet  in  the  trough  ;  but  there 


Perverlenefs. ,  129 

are  men — some  of  them  of  Christian  professions — who 
take  every  tenderness  their  wives  bring  them,  and 
every  expression  of  affection,  and  every  service,  and 
every  yearning  sympathy,  and  trample  them  under 
feet  without  tasting  them,  and  without  a  look  of  grati- 
tude in  their  eyes.  Hard,  cold,  thin-blooded,  white- 
livered,  contemptible  curmudgeons — they  think  their 
wives  weak  and  foolish,  and  themselves  wise  and  dig- 
nified !  I  beg  my  readers  to  assist  me  in  despising 
them.  I  do  not  feel  adequate  to  the  task  of  doing 
them  justice. 

There  is  another  exhibition  of  perverseness  which 
we  sometimes  see  in  families.  There  will  be,  perhaps, 
from  two  to  half  a  dozen  sisters  in  a  family,  amiable  all 
of  them.  Now,  think  of  the  reasons  which  should  bind 
them  together  in  the  tenderest  sympathy.  They  were 
born  of  the  same  mother,  they  were  nursed  at  the  same 
heart,  they  were  cradled  under  the  same  roof  by 
the  same  hand,  they  have  knelt  at  the  side  of  the 
same  father,  their  interests,  trials,  associates,  stand- 
ing— every  thing  concerning  their  family  and  social 
life; — are  the  same.  The  honor  of  one  intimately  con- 
cerns the  honor  of  the  other,  yet  I  have  known  such 
families  of  sisters  fly  apart  the  moment  they  be- 
came in  any  way  independent  of  each  other,  as  if 
they  were  natural  enemies.  I  have  seen  them  take 
the  part  of  a  friend  against  any  member  of  the  family 
6* 


130  Leflbns  in  Life. 

band,  and  become  disgusted  with  one  another's  so- 
ciety. Where  matters  have  not  gone  to  this  length, 
I  have  seen  sisters  who  would  never  caress  each 
other,  or,  by  any  but  the  most  formal  and  dignified 
methods,  express  their  affection  for  each  other.  I 
have  seen  them  live  together  for  months  and  years  as 
inexpressive  of  affection  for  each  other  as  cattle  in  a 
stall, — more  so  :  for  I  have  seen  a  cow  affectionately 
lick  her  neighbor's  ear  by  the  half-hour,  while  among 
these  girls  I  have  failed  to  see  a  kiss,  or  hear  a  tender 
word,  or  witness  any  exhibition  of  sisterly  affection 
whatever. 

One  of  the  most  common  forms  of  perverseness, 
though  one  of  the  most  subtle  and  least  known,  is  that 
shown  by  people  who  study  to  shut  everybody  out 
from  a  knowledge  of  their  nature  and  their  life.  They 
make  it  their  grand  end  and  aim  to  appear  to  be  ex- 
actly what  they  are  not,  to  appear  to  believe  exactly 
what  they  do  not  believe,  and  to  appear  to  feel  what 
they  do  not  feel  at  all.  This  is  not  because  they  are 
ashamed  of  themselves,  or  because  they  really  have  any 
thing  to  conceal.  They  have  simply  taken  on  this  form 
of  perverseness.  They  will  not,  if  they  can  help  it,  al- 
low any  man  to  get  inside  of  their  natures  and  charac- 
ters. If  they  write  you  a  letter,  they  will  mislead  you. 
They  will  say  to  you  irreverent  and  shocking  things, 
to  prove  to  you  that  they  are  bold,  and  unfeeling,  and 


Perverfenefs.  131 

unthoughtful,  when  they  tremble  at  what  they  have 
written,  and  really  show  by  their  language  that  they 
are  afraid,  and  full  of  feeling,  and  very  thoughtful.  If 
they  have  a  sentiment  of  love  for  anybody,  they  take 
it  as  a  dog  would  a  bone,  and  go  and  dig  a  hole  hi  the 
ground  and  bury  it,  only  resorting  to  it  in  the  dark,  for 
private  craunching.  Very  likely  they  will  try  to  make 
you  believe  that  they  live  a  most  dainty  and  delicate  life 
— that  the  animals  of  the  field,  and  the  fowls  of  the  air 
love  them,  and  come  at  their  call — that  clouds  arrange 
themselves  in  heaven  for  their  benefit,  and  are  suffi- 
ciently paid  for  the  effopt  by  their  admiration — that 
flowers  excite  them  to  frenzy — a  very  fine  frenzy,  in- 
deed— and  that  all  sounds  shape  themselves  to  music  in 
their  souls.  They  would  have  you  think  that  they  live 
a  kind  of  charmed  life — that  the  sun  woos  them,  and  the 
moon  pines  for  them,  and  the  sea  sobs  because  they  will 
not  come,  and  the  daisies  wait  lovingly  for  their  feet, 
yet,  if  you  knew  the  truth,  you  would  see  that  they  sit 
discontentedly  among  the  homeliest  surroundings  of 
domestic  life,  with  their  sleeves  rolled  up — confound 
them! 

This  variety  of  perverseness  seems  very  inexplic- 
able. I  have  seen  much  of  it,  but  do  not  know  what  to 
make  of  it.  There  is  doubtless  something  morbid  in 
it.  It  is  often  carried  to  such  extremes,  and  managed 
so  artfully,  that  multitudes  are  deceived  by  it.  I  know 


•132  Leffons  in  Life. 

of  some  very  beautiful  natures  that  pass  in  the  world 
for  rough  and  coarse.  I  know  men  who  have  the  repu- 
tation of  being  hard  and  harsh,  yet  who  are,  inside,  and 
in  their  own  consciousness,  as  gentle  and  sensitive  as 
women — who  put  on  a  stern  air  and  a  repellent  man- 
ner, when  they  are  really  yearning  for  sympathy.  I 
have  seen  this  air  and  manner  broken  through  and  bat- 
tered down  by  a  friendly  man,  who  found  what  he  sus- 
pected behind  it — a  generous,  warm,  noble  heart.  This 
perverseness  seems  to  be  akin  to  that  of  the  miser  who 
knows  he  is  rich,  takes  his  highest  delight  in  being  rich, 
and  yet  dresses  meanly,  and  fares  like  a  beggar  rather 
than  be  thought  rich.  Women  hide  themselves  more 
than  men.  They  are  generally  more  sensitive,  and  their 
life  and  circumscribed  habits  have  a  tendency  to  the 
formation  of  morbid  moods,  and  this  among  the  num- 
ber. 

Of  the  perverseness  of  partisanship  in  politics  much 
is  written,  and  my  pen  need  not  dip  into  it ;  but  there 
is  a  perverseness  exhibited  by  Christian  churches  in 
their  quarrels  that  should  be  exposed  and  discussed, 
because  some  people  have  an  impression  that  it  may 
possibly  be  piety.  "For  dum  squizzle,  read  perma- 
nence," said  an  editor,  correcting  a  typographical  error 
that  had  found  its  way  into  his  journal.  It  seems  as 
strange  that  perverseness  should  be  mistaken  for  piety, 
as  that  "  permanence  "  should  be  mistaken  for  "  dum 


Perverfenels.  133 

squizzle,"  but  I  believe  it  often  is.  Let  some  little 
cause  of  disturbance  arise,  and  become  active  in  a 
church,  and  it  is  astonishing  how  both  parties  go  to 
work  and  pray  over  it.  The  pastor,  perhaps,  has  said 
something  on  the  subject  of  slavery,  or  he  does  not 
preach  doctrine  enough,  or  he  preaches  the  wrong  sort 
of  doctrine,  or  he  does  not  visit  his  people  enough,  or 
there  is  "  a  row  "  about  the  singing,  or  about  a  change 
in  the  hymn-books,  or  about  repairing  the  church,  or 
buying  an  organ,  or  something  or  other,  and  straight- 
way sides  are  taken,  and  the  wills  of  both  parties  get 
roused.  It  is  sometimes  laughable — it  would  always 
be,  only  that  it  is  too  sad — to  see  how  quickly  both 
parties  grow  pious,  as  they  grow  perverse.  It  would 
seem,  as  the  strife  waxes  hot,  that  the  glory  of  God 
was  never  so  much  in  their  hearts  as  now.  They  pray 
with  fervor,  they  are  constant  in  their  public  religious 
duties,  they  pass  through  the  most  scrupulous  self-ex- 
aminations, and  then  fight  on  to  the  bitter  end;  be- 
lieving, I  suppose,  that  they  are  really  doing  God  ser- 
vice, when  they  are  only  gratifying  their  own  perverse 
wills. 

Churches  have  been  ruined,  or  divided,  or  crippled 
in  their  power,  by  a  cause  of  quarrel  too  insignificant 
to  engage  the  minds  of  sensible  worldly  men  for  an 
hour.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  church  quarrels  are 
the  most  violent  of  all  quarrels,  because  religious  feel- 


134  Leflbns  in  Life. 

ings  are  the  strongest  feelings  of  our  nature.  I  confess 
that  I  do  not  see  the  force  of  this  statement,  for  it  does 
not  appear  to  me  that  religious  feelings  have  much  to 
do  with  these  quarrels.  I  can  much  more  easily  see 
why  all  personal  differences  should  be  adjusted  peace- 
ably in  a  church,  for  there  it  is  supposed  that  the  indi- 
vidual will  is  subordinated  to  the  cause  of  religion  and 
the  general  good.  The  real  basis  of  the  bitterness  of 
church  quarrels  is  women.  There  are  no  others,  ex- 
cept neighborhood  quarrels,  in  which  women  mingle, 
and  a  neighborhood  quarrel  will  at  once  be  recognized 
as  more  like  a  church  quarrel  than  any  other.  Women 
have  strong  feelings,  are  attracted  or  repulsed  through 
their  sensibilities,  conceive  keen  likes  and  dislikes,  do 
not  stop  to  reason,  and  are,  of  course,  the  readiest  and 
the  most  devoted  partisans.  If  the  mouths  of  the  wo- 
men could  only  be  smothered  in  a  church  quarrel,  it 
would  be  settled  much  easier.  Of  all  the  perverse 
creatures  in  this  world,  a  woman  who  has  thoroughly 
committed  herself  to  any  man,  or  any  cause,  is  the  least 
tractable  and  reasonable.  I  hope  this  statement  will 
not  offend  my  sweet  friends,  because  it  is  so  true  that 
I  cannot  conscientiously  retract  it. 

What  the  books  call  pride  of  opinion,  is,  nine  cases 
in  ten,  simple  perverseness.  I  know  a  most  venerable 
public  teacher  of  physiology,  whose  early  theory  of  the 
production  of  animal  heat — very  ridiculous  in  itself — is 


Perverfenels.  135 


still  yearly  announced  from  his  desk,  notwithstanding 
the  fact  that  the  whole  world  has  received  another, 
whose  soundness  is  demonstrated  beyond  all  question. 
As  he,  year  after  year,  declares  his  belief  that  animal 
heat  is  produced  by  corpuscular  friction  in  the  circula- 
ting blood,  there  is  a  twinkle  of  the  eyes  among  his 
amused  auditors  which  says  very  plainly — "the  old 
gentleman  does  not  believe  this,  himself."  The  young- 
est student  before  him  knows  better  than  to  give  his 
theory  a  moment's  consideration.  Well,  the  old  Doc- 
tor is  not  alone.  The  world  is  full  of  this  kind  of  thing. 
Men  adhere  to  old  opinions  and  old  policies  long  after 
they  have  learned  that  they  are  shallow  or  untenable, 
not  from  a  genuine  pride  of  opinion,  (I  doubt  very  much 
whether  there  really  is  any  thing  that  should  be  called 
pride  of  opinion,)  but  from  genuine  perverseness  of 
disposition.  Men  will  give,  in  some  heated  moment, 
an  opinion  touching  some  one's  character  or  powers, 
and,  though  that  opinion  be  proved  to  be  wrong  a 
thousand  times,  they  will  never  acknowledge  that  they 
have  made  a  mistake.  This  is  simple  perverseness,  of 
the  meanest  variety.  There  are  some  kinds  of  per- 
verseness which  impress  one  not  altogether  unpleas- 
antly, but  this  affects  a  man  with  equal  anger  and 
disgust. 

Perverseness, is  a  sign  of  weakness — nay,  an  ele- 
ment of  weakness — in  man  or  woman.     It  is  no  legiti- 


136  Leflbns  in  Life. 

mate  part  of  a  true  character.  The  generous,  out- 
spoken man,  who  is  not  afraid  to  show  himself,  and 
what  there  is  in  him,  who  cares  more  about  the  right 
way  than  his  way,  who  throws  away  an  opinion  as  he 
would  throw  away  an  old  hat,  the  moment  he  finds  it 
is  worthless,  and  who  good-naturedly  allows  the  fric- 
tions of  society  to  straighten  out  all  the  kinks  there 
are  in  him,  is  the  strong  man  always,  and  always  the 
one  whom  men  love.  Perverseness  is  really  moral 
strabismus,  and  I  am  shocked  to  think  what  a  multi- 
tude of  squint-eyed  souls  there  will  be,  when  we  come 
to  look  into  one  another's  faces  in  the  "  undress  of  im- 
mortality." 


LESSON  X. 

UNDEVELOPED    KESOUECES. 

"The  world  is  God's  seed-bed.    Ho  has  planted  deep  and  multitudinously, 
and  many  things  there  are  which  hare  not  yet  come  up." — BEECHES. 

ONE  of  the  richest  and  best  of  the  smaller  class  of 
American  cities  is  New  Bedford ;  and  the  secret 
of  its  wealth  and  beauty  is  oil.  It  is  but  a  few  years 
since  the  immense  fleet  of  vessels  that  made  that  thrifty 
port  their  home  went  out  with  certainty  of  success  in 
their  dangerous  enterprises,  and  came  back  loaded 
down  with  spoil.  All  that  beautiful  wealth  was  won 
from  the  deep,  and  for  years  as  many  ships  came  and 
went  as  there  were  dwellings  to  give  them  speed  and 
welcome.  But  the  glory  and  the  gain  of  the  whale- 
fishery  are  past.  The  noble  prey,  too  persistently  and 
mercilessly  pursued,  has  retired  northward,  and  hidden 
among  the  icebergs.  Now,  when  a  ship's  crew  win  a 
cargo,  they  win  it  from  the  clutches  of  eternal  frost. 


138  Leffons  in  Life. 

It  seems  certain  that  the  fishery  will  dwindle,  year 
after  year,  until,  at  last,  only  a,  few  adventurers  will 
linger  near  the  pole,  to  watch  for  the  rare  game  that 
once  furnished  light  for  the  civilized  world.  All  this 
is  very  unpleasant  for  New  Bedford  ;  but  are  we  to 
have  no  more  oil  ?  Is  nature  failing  ?  Will  the  time 
come  when  people  must  sit  in  darkness  ? 

A  few  months  ago  a  man  in  Pennsylvania  toot  it 
into  his  head  to  probe  the  ground  for  the  source  of  a 
certain  oil  that  made  its  appearance  upon  the  surface. 
Down,  down  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth  he  thrust  his 
steam-driven  harpoon,  until  he  touched  the  living  foun- 
tain of  oil,  which,  gushing  up,  half  drowned  him.  Now, 
all  the  region  round  about  him  swarms  with  industry. 
Thousands  of  men  arc  hurrying  to  and  fro ;  the  puff  of 
the  engine  is  heard  everywhere  ;  tens  of  thousands  of 
barrels  of  oil  are  rolled  out  and  turned  into  the  chan- 
nels of  commerce ;  eager-eyed  speculators  throng  all 
the  converging  avenues  of  travel,  and  a  waiting  world 
of  consumers  take  the  oil  as  fast  as  it  is  produced. 
Men  in  Virginia,  New  Yoi'k,  and  Ohio  are  awaking  to 
the  consciousness  that,  while  they  have  been  paying 
for  oil  from  the  far  Pacific,  they  have  been  living  within 
three  hundred  feet  of  deposits  greater  than  all  the 
cargoes  that  ever  floated  in  New  Bedford  harbor. 
For  hundreds,  and,  probably,  for  thousands  of  years, 
men  have  walked  over  these  deposits  with  no  suspicion 


Undeveloped  Refources.  139 

of  their  existence.  Geologists  have  looked  wise,  as  is 
their  habit,  but  have  given  no  hint  of  them. 

The  simple  truth  appears  to  be  that  when,  in  the 
history  of  the  -world,  it  became  necessary  for  these 
firmly-fastened  store-houses  of  oil  to  be  uncovered, 
they  were  uncovered.  Nature  had  held  them  for  un- 
told thousands  of  years  for  just  this  emergency.  When 
the  whales  ceased  spouting,  the  earth  took  up  the  busi- 
ness ;  and  "  here  she  blows  "  and  "  there  she  blows  " 
are  heard  in  Tideoute  and  Titusville,  while  New  Bed- 
ford sits  sadly  by  the  sea,  and  thinks  of  long  absent 
crews  to  whom  the  cry  has  become  strange. 

I  cannot  but  look  upon  this  discovery  of  oil  in  the 
earth  as  one  of  the  most  remarkable  and  instructive 
revelations  of  the  age.  It  has  shown  to  me  that,  when- 
ever human  necessity  demands  any  thing  of  the  world 
of  matter,  the  demand  will  be  honored.  Whenever 
animal  life,  or  the  muscle  of  man  or  brute,  has  shown 
itself  unequal  to  the  wants  of  an  age,  Nature  has  al- 
ways responded  to  the  cry  for  help.  Inventors  are 
only  men  who  act  as  pioneers,  and  who  go  forward  to 
see  what  the  human  race  will  want  next,  and  to  make 
the  necessary  provisions.  An  inventor  has  profound 
faith  in  the  exhaustless  resources  of  nature.  He 
knows  that  if  he  bores  far  enough,  and  bores  in  the 
right  direction,  he  will  find  that  which  the  world  needs. 
He  is  often  no  more  than  the  discoverer  of  a  secret 


140  Leffons  in  Life. 


which  nature  has  kept  for  the  satisfaction  of  the  Avants 
of  an  age.  A  lake  yoked  to  a  coal-bed  would  gener- 
ally be  voted  a  slow  team,  but  the  inventor  of  the 
steam  engine  saw  how  it  could  be  made  a  very  fast  and 
a  very  powerful  one  ;  and  we  who  live  now  are  able  to 
see  that  the  discovery  was  made  at  the  right  time,  and 
that,  for  the  emergencies  of  this  latter  day,  it  has  really 
quadrupled  the  power  of  civilized  man. 

Think  how  nature  has  risen  grandly  up  to  meet 
every  occasion  for  new  resources.  The  revolution 
wrought  by  steam  in  the  business  of  the  world  created 
great  wants,  every  one  of  which  was  filled  as  soon  as 
felt.  Quicker  modes  of  communicating  thought  were 
needed  to  give  us  all  the  advantages  of  the  increased 
facility  of  carriage,  and  Mr.  Morse  Avas  permitted  to 
uncover  the  telegraph.  More  money  was  Avanted  for 
the  increased  business  of  the  Avorld,  and  the  gold  fields 
of  California  and  Australia  were  unveiled.  It  has 
always  been  so.  In  the  march  of  the  human  race  along 
the  track  of  history,  nature  has  pulled  aside  the  veil  in 
which  she  hides  her  treasures,  to  display  that  which 
she  has  kept  in  store  for  eveiy  epoch.  In  all  the  future 
I  haAre  no  doubt  that  whenever  oil  shall  be  wanted,  oil 
will  be  had  for  the  boring.  The  world  is  fitted  up  with 
supplies  for  all  the  probable  and  possible  wants  of  the 
human  race.  "We  are  treading  every  day  upon  the  lids 
of  great  secrets  that  await  the  wants  of  the  larger  style 


Undeveloped  Refources.  141 

and  finer  type  of  life  that  lie  before  us.  Discovery  has 
but  just  begun,  and  will,  I  doubt  not,  be  as  rife  in 
future  ages  as  in  this.  There  is  no  end  of  it :  yet  the 
world  is  a  thing  to  be  weighed  and  measured.  It  is  so 
many  miles  around  it,  and  so  many  miles  through 
it.  Never  mind ;  it  has  more  in  it  than  humanity  can 
exhaust. 

"When  we  talk  of  the  material  world,  especially  in 
its  relation  to  the  constantly  developing  wants  of  man, 
we  talk  simply  of  the  kitchen  and  larder  of  humanity. 
We  have  not  ascended  into  the  drawing-room,  or  con- 
servatory. The  moment  we  step  out  of  the  considera- 
tion of  manifested  nature,  we  come  into  a  world  which 
may  neither  be  weighed  nor  measured — the  world  of 
thought.  I  suppose  that  no  author  has  ever  entered  a 
large  library  and  stood  in  its  alcoves  and  studied  its 
titles  long  without  asking  himself  the  question :  "what 
is  there  left  for  me  to  do  ?"  It  seems  as  if  men  had 
been  reaching  in  all  directions  for  the  discovery  of 
thought  since  time  began,  and  as  if  there  were  -abso- 
lutely nothing  new  to  be  said  upon  any  subject.  Yet 
every  age  has  always  demanded  its  peculiar  food,  and 
every  age  has  managed  to  get  it.  Certain  great  and 
peculiarly  fruitful  subjects,  blowing  in  the  sea  of  thought, 
have  attracted  whole  fleets  of  authors  for  many  years, 
and  they  are  doubtless  chased  away  no  more  to  return ; 
but,  here  and  there,  while  time  shall  last,  strong  men 


142  Leffons  in  Life. 

will  bore  down  to  deposits  of  thought  unsuspected  by 
any  of  the  preceding  generations  of  men,  and  there  will 
gush  up  streams  to  light  the  nations  of  the  world.  For 
the  world  of  thought  is,  by  its  nature,  exhaustless.  The 
world  of  thought  is  the  world  in  which  God  lives,  and 
it  is  infinite  like  himself.  We  reach  our  hands  out  into 
the  dark  in  any  direction,  and  find  a  thought.  It  was 
God's  before  it  was  ours  ;  and  on  beyond  that  thought, 
lies  another,  and  still  another,  ad  infinitum.  If  our 
arms  were  long  enough,  we  should  be  able  to  grasp 
them  as  well  as  the  first.  All  that  it  wants  is  the  long 
arm  to  give  us  the  command  of  deposits  that  would 
astonish  the  world.  Authors  have  become  eminent 
according  to  their  power  to  reach  further  than  others 
out  into  the  infinite  atmosphere  of  thought  which 
envelops  them. 

Authors,  like  inventors,  are  rarely  more  than  dis- 
coverers. If  God,  who  is  omniscient,  sees  all  truth, 
and  apprehends  the  relations  of  every  truth  to  every 
other  truth,  all  an  author  can  do  is,  of  course,  to  find 
out  what  God's  thoughts  are.  And  every  age  is  cer- 
tain to  find  out  the  thought  that  is  essential  to  it.  When 
the  world  had  exhausted  Aristotle,  and  the  wide  school 
of  philosophers  who  embraced  him  in  their  systems, 
Bacon,  self-instituted,  stepped  before  the  world  as  its 
teacher.  He  came  when  he  was  wanted,  and  his  age 
gave  him  audience,  and  took  the  better  path  which  he 


Undeveloped  Refources.  143 

pointed  out  to  it.  It  was  in  the  golden  age  of  the 
drama — the  age  in  which  the  drama  was  what  it  never 
was  before,  and  will  never  be  again — a  great  agent  of 
civilization — that  Shakspeare  appeared.  We  call  his 
plays  creations,  but  surely  they  were  not  his.  He  no 
more  than  discovered  them.  The  reason  why  they  stir 
us  so  much  is  that  God  created  them.  His  age  wanted 
them,  and  he  had  the  insight  into  the  world  of  thought 
which  enabled  him  to  enter  in  and  lead  them  out.  The 
reason  why  we  have  not  had  any  great  dramatist  since, 
is,  that  succeeding  ages  have  not  needed  one.  The 
great  men  of  later  ages  have  not  recognized  the  drama 
as  a  want  of  their  particular  time.  I  am  aware  that 
there  is  nothing  in  this  to  feed  human  pride,  but  I  do 
not  recognize  food  for  human  pride  as  a  want  of  any 
age. 

"We  are  in  the  habit  of  talking  of  the  old  authors ; 
and  we  read  them  as  if  we  supposed  them  wiser  than 
ourselves.  We  try  to  feed  on  the  thought  which  they 
discovered,  but  it  is  in  the  main  very  innutritions  fod- 
der, and  the  world  is  learning  the  fact.  We  read  and 
reverence  old  books  less,  and  read  and  regard  news- 
papers a  great  deal  more.  The  thought  which  our' 
own  age  produces  is  that  which  we  are  learning  to 
prize  most.  We  buy  beautiful  editions  of  Scott,  but 
we  read  Dickens  and  Thackeray  and  Mrs.  Stowe,  in 
weekly  and  monthly  numbers.  Milton,  in  half-calf, 


144  Leflbns  in  Life. 

stands  upon  the  shelves  of  our  library  undisturbed, 
while  we  cut  the  leaves  of  "  Festus ; "  and  Keats  and 
Byron  and  Shelley  are  all  pushed  aside  that  we  may 
converse  with  Longfellow  and  Mrs.  Browning.  It  is 
not,  perhaps,  that  the  later  are  the  greater,  but,  being 
informed  with  the  spirit  of  the  age  in  which  we  have  our 
life,  moving  among  the  facts  which  concern  us,  and 
conscious  of  our  want,  they  apprehend  the  true  rela- 
tions of  their  age  to  the  world  of  thought  around  them. 
They  see  where  the  sources  of  oil  are  exhausted,  and 
bore  for  new  deposits.  It  is  a  comfort  to  know  that 
they  can  never  bore  in  vain. 

We  may  be  sure  that  literature  will  always  be  as 
fresh  as  it  has  been.  It  is  possible  that  we  may  never 
have  greater  men  than  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  and 
Dante  and  Goethe  ;  but  there  is  nothing  to  hinder  our 
having  men  just  as  great.  Those  who  are  to  come  will 
only  bore  in  different  directions,  and  find  new  deposits. 
Shakspeare  and  Milton  were  great  writers,  but  the 
fields  they  occupied  were  their  own.  They  do  not 
resemble  each  other  in  any  particular.  Dante  .nd 
Goethe  were  great  writers,  but  there  are  no  points  of 
resemblance  between  them.  When  Scott  was  issuing 
his  wonderful  series  of  novels,  it  seemed  to  his  cotem- 
poraries,  I  suppose,  that  there  was  no  field  left  for  a 
successor ;  yet  Dickens,  in  the  next  generation,  won  as 
many  readers  and  as  much  admiration  as  he,  in  a  field 


Undeveloped  Refources.  145 

whose  existence  Scott  never  suspected.  Very  different 
is  the  world  of  thought  from  the  woiid  of  matter,  in 
the  fact  that  its  deposits  are  found  in  no  particular  spot. 
The  mind  can  go  out  in  quest  of  thought  in  no  direc- 
tion without  reward ;  and  every  man  receives  from  his 
age  motive  and  culture  which  peculiarly  prepare  him 
for  the  work  of  supplying  its  needs.  There  are  some 
who  seem  to  think  that  the  golden  age  of  literature  is 
past — that  nothing  modern  is  worthy  of  notice,  and 
that  it  is  one  of  the  vices  of  the  age  that  we  discard  so 
much  the  teachings  of  the  literary  fathers.  But  the 
world  of  thought  is  exhaustless,  and  we  have  only  to 
produce  a  finer  civilization  than  the  world  has  ever 
seen,  to  secure,  as  its  consummate  flower,  a  literature 
of  corresponding  excellence. 

"What  has  been  said  of  the  world  of  matter  and  the 
world  of  thought,  may  be  said,  and  is  implied,  of  the 
world  of  men.  We  are  accustomed  to  say  that  great 
emergencies  make  great  men.  But  this  is  not  true. 
Great  men  are  always  found  to  meet  great  emergen- 
cies :  but  God  makes  them,  and  leads  them  through  a 
course  of  discipline  which  prepares  them  for  their  work. 
It  is  one  of  the  remarkable  facts  of  history,  so  patent 
that  all  have  seen  and  acknowledged  it,  that  to  meet 
every  great  epoch  a  man  has  been  prepared.  I  mean 
it  in  no  irreverent  or  theological  sense  when  I  say  that 
there  has  been  a  series  of  Christs,  whose  appearance 


146  Leffons  in  Life. 

has  denoted  the  departure  of  old  dispensations  and  the 
inauguration  of  new.  Men  have  arisen  who  have  torn 
down  temples,  and  demolished  idols,  and  swept  away 
systems,  and  knocked  off  fetters,  and  introduced  their 
age  into  a  freer,  Letter,  and  larger  life ;  and  it  will 
always  be  so  while  time  shall  last.  Men  will  arise  equal 
to  the  wants  of  their  age  wherever  men  are  civilized. 
The  causes  which  produce  emergencies  are  the  agents 
which  educate  men  to  meet  them  ;  and  nature  is  prod- 
igal of  her  material  among  men,  as  among  the  things 
made  for  his  service. 

When,  in  the  history  of  Christianity,  it  became 
necessary  to  re-assert  and  emphasize  the  truth  that 
"the  just  shall  live  by  faith,"  Luther  was  raised  up; 
and  nothing  is  more  apparent  to  the  student  than  that 
the  age  which  produced  him  demanded  him — that  he 
fitted  into  his  age,  supplied  its  wants,  and  cut  a  new 
channel,  through  which  the  richest  life  of  the  world 
has  flowed  for  centuries.  He  found  his  country  tied 
up  to  formalism,  scholasticism,  and  tradition ;  and  by 
strokes  as  remarkable  for  boldness  as  strength  he  set  it 
free.  He  stands  at  the  head  of  a  great  historical  epoch, 
which  was  prepared  to  receive  and  crown  him.  In 
another  field,  we  have,  even  in  this  day,  a  reformer 
whom  his  age  has  called  for,  and  who  will  surely  do  in 
the  world  of  art  what  Luther  did  in  religion.  No  one 
can  read  Buskin,  and  mark  his  enthusiasm,  his  splendid 


Undeveloped  Refources. 


power,  his  earnestness,  his  love  of  truth,  his  reverence 
for  nature,  and  above  all,  his  love  of  God,  without  feel- 
ing that  he  has  a  great  mission  to  fulfil  in  the  world. 
I  bow  myself  in  homage  before  this  man,  and  acknowl- 
edge his  credentials.  He  speaks  with  authority,  and 
not  as  the  common  run  of  scribes,  at  all.  Fearlessly 
he  tears  the  mask  away  from  conventionalism  and  pre- 
tension, sparing  neither  age  nor  nation,  and  scattering 
critics  right  and  left 

"  Like  chaff  from  the  threshing-floor." 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  sight  of  this  single,  unsupport- 
ed man,  plunging  boldly  into  a  fight  with  a  whole 
world  full  of  liars  and  lies,  thrusting  right  and  left, 
anxious  only  for  the  triumph  of  truth,  and  everywhere 
devoutly  recognizing  God  and  his  glory,  and  Christ  and 
his  honor,  as  the  ultimate  end  of  true  art,  is  one  of 
the  most  striking  and  beautiful  the  world  has  ever  seen. 
Was  there  not  need  of  him  ?  Had  not  art  become  su- 
perstitious and  infidel  and  missionless?  Had  it  not 
faded  to  little  more  than  the  repetition  of  old  inanities, 
traditional  mannerisms,  stereotyped  lies  ?  Ruskin  came 
to  tell  his  age  that  art  was  doing  nothing  toward  mak- 
ing the  world  better — that,  instead  of  lifting  the  heart 
toward  God,  and  enlarging  the  field  of  human  sym- 
pathy, it  was  only  ministering  to  the  vanity  of  men — 
that  nature  was  dishonored  that  men  might"  win  the 


148  Leffons  in  Life. 

applause  of  vulgar  crowds  by  falsehood  and  trickery. 
Nobly  has  he  done  and  nobly  is  he  still  doing  his  work ; 
and  the  world  is  reading  him.  It  matters  not  that  crit- 
ics carp,  and  scold,  and  whine — the  world  is  reading, 
and  will  regard  him.  The  eternal  truth  of  God  and 
nature  is  on  his  side ;  and  we  are  to  see,  as  I  firmly  be- 
lieve, resulting  from  his  noble  labors,  a  beautiful  resur- 
rection of  art  from  the  grave  in  which  its  friends  have 
laid  it.  It  shall  come  forth,  though  now  bound  hand 
and  foot,  and  be  restored  to  the  sisterhood  whose  hap- 
piness it  is  to  serve  and  sit  at  the  feet  of  Jesus  Christ. 
But  time  and  space  would  fail  to  give  illustrations 
of  the  truth  that  God  has  always  a  man  ready  for  an 
emergency.  It  is  not  necessary  to  speak  of  Washing- 
ton. It  would  not  be  wise,  perhaps,  to  speak  of  the 
first  Napoleon,  because  men  differ  so  widely  in  their 
estimate  of  his  work.  But  of  the  last  Napoleon,  it  may 
be  said  that  he  furnishes  one  of  the  most  notable  in- 
stances the  world  has  ever  seen  of  a  man  prepared  for 
his  age.  I  suppose  that  no  one  believes  that  there  is 
another  man  in  existence  who  could  have  done  for 
France,  and  would  have  done  for  Europe,  under  the 
circumstances,  what  Louis  Napoleon  has  done.  Never 
did  the  central  figure  of  an  elaborate  piece  of  mosaic 
fit  more  nicely  into  its  place,  than  did  Louis  Napoleon 
into  the  complicated  affairs  of  his  age.  They  were 
made  for  him,  and  he  for  them. 


Undeveloped  Refburces.  149 

Shall  the  world  of  matter  never  fail — shall  the  world 
of  thought  be  exhaustless — shall  men  be  found  for  all 
the  emergencies  of  their  race,  and,  yet,  shall  divine  truth 
be  contained  in  a  nut-shell  ?  Must  the  human  soul  lack 
food — fresh  food — because  a  generation  long  gone  has 
decided  that  only  certain  food  is  fit  for  the  human 
soul  ?  I  believe  that  the  Bible  is  a  revelation  of  divine 
truth  to  men,  and,  believing  this,  I  believe  that  its  most 
precious  deposits  have  hardly  been  touched.  I  believe 
that  in  it,  there  is  special  food  prepared  for  all  the  wide 
variety  of  human  souls,  and  that,  as  generation  after 
generation  passes  away,  new  deposits  will  be  struck,  so 
rich  in  illuminating  power  that  their  discoverers  will 
wonder  they  had  never  been  seen  before.  I  know  that 
just  before  me,  or  somewhere  before  me,  there  is  a  gen- 
eration of  men  who  will  think  less  of  being  saved,  and 
more  of  being  worth  saving,  less  of  dogma,  and  more 
of  duty,  less  of  law,  and  more  of  love ;  whose  worship 
will  be  less  formal,  and  more  truthful  and  spiritual,  and 
whose  God  will  be  a  more  tender  and  considerate  father, 
and  less  a  lawgiver  and  a  judge.  For  such  a  genera- 
tion, there  exists  a  deposit  of  divine  truth  almost  un- 
known by  Christendom.  Only  here  and  there  have  men 
gathered  it,  floating  upon  the  surface.  The  great  de- 
posit waits  the  touch  of  another  age. 


LESSON  XI. 

GREATNESS   IN   LITTLENESS. 

"This  earth  will  all  its  dust  and  tears 
Is  no  less  his  than  yonder  spheres; 
And  rain-drops  weak  and  prains  of  sand 
Are  stamped  by  his  immediate  hand." 
STEELING. 

"  There  is  a  power 

Unseen,  that  rules  the  illimitable  world; 
That  guides  its  motions,  from  the  brightest  star 
To  the  least  dust  of  this  sin-tainted  world." 
TUOMSON. 

INFINITY  lies  below  us  as  well  as  above  us.  There 
is  as  mucb  essential  greatness  in  littleness  as  in 
largeness.  Mont  Blanc — massive,  ice-crowned,  impe- 
rial— is  a  great  work  of  nature  ;  yet  it  is  only  an  aggre- 
gation of  materials  with  which  we  are  thoroughly  fami- 
liar. It  is  only  a  larger  mountain  than  that  which  lies 
within  sight  of  my  window.  A  dozen  Monadnocks  or 
Ascutneys  or  Holyokes,  more  or  less,  make  a  Mont 
Blanc,  with  glaciers  and  avalanches  and  brooding  eter- 


Greatnefs  in  Littlenefs.  151 

nity  of  frost.  Such  greatness,  though  it  impresses  me 
much,  is  not  beyond  my  comprehension.  It  can  be 
reckoned  by  cubic  miles.  So  with  the  sea :  it  is  only 
an  expanse  of  water  larger  than  the  river  that  winds 
through  the  meadows.  It  is  great,  but  it  is  only  an 
aggregate  of  numerable  quantities  that  my  eyes  can 
measure,  and  my  mind  comprehend.  These  are  great 
objects,  and  they  are  great  particularly  because  they 
are  large.  They  are  above  me,  and  they  lead  me 
upward  toward  creative  infinity. 

If  I  turn  my  eyes  in  the  other  direction,  however, 
I  lose  myself  in  infinity  quite  as  readily.  If  I  pick  up 
a  pebble  at  the  foot  of  Mont  Blanc,  and  undertake  the 
examination  of  its  structure, — the  elements  which  com- 
pose it,  the  relations  of  those  elements  to  each  other, 
the  mode  of  their  combination — I  am  lost  as  readily  as 
I  should  be  in  following  the  footsteps  of  the  stars.  If 
I  undertake  to  look  through  a  drop  of  water,  I  may  be 
arrested  at  first,  indeed,  by  the  sports  and  struggles  of 
animalcular  life ;  but  at  length  I  find  myself  gazing 
beyond  it  into  infinitude — using  it  as  a  lens  through 
which  the  Godhead  becomes  visible  to  me.  I  can  dis- 
sect from  one  another  the  muscles  and  arteries  and 
veins  and  nerves  and  vital  viscera  of  the  human  body, 
but  the  little  insect  that  taps  a  vein  upon  my  hand  does 
it  with  an  instrument  and  by  the  operation  of  machin- 
ery which  are  beyond  my  scrutiny.  They  belong  to  a 


152  Leffons  in  Life. 

life  and  are  the  servants  of  instincts  which  I  do  not 
understand  at  all. 

These  thoughts  come  to  me,  borne  by  certain  mem- 
ories. I  know  a  venerable  gentleman  of  Buffalo — Dr. 
Scott — who  did,  and  who  still  does,  very  great  things 
in  a  very  small  way.  At  the  age  of  seventy  he  became 
conscious  of  decaying  power  of  vision.  Being  profes- 
sionally a  physician  and  naturally  a  philosopher,  he 
conceived  the  idea  that  the  eye  might  be  improved  by 
what  he  denominated  a  series  of  "  ocular  gymnastics." 
He  therefore  undertook  to  exercise  his  eyes  upon  the 
formation  of  minute  letters — working  upon  them  until 
the  organs  began  to  be  weary,  and  then,  like  a  prudent 
man,  resting  for  hours.  By  progressing  slowly  and 
carefully,  he  became,  at  last,  able  to  do  wonders  in  the 
way  of  fine  writing,  and  also  became  able  to  read  the 
newspapers  without  glasses.  (Here's  a  hint  for  some 
clever  Yankee — as  good  as  a  fortune.)  Now,  reader, 
prepare  for  a  large  story;  but  be  assured  that  it  is 
true,  and  that  my  hands  have  handled  and  my  eyes 
seen  the  things  of  which  I  tell  you.  At  the  age  of 
seventy-one,  Dr.  Scott  wrote  upon  an  enamelled  card 
with  a  stile,  on  space  exactly  equal  to  that  of  one  side 
of  a  three-cent  piece, — The  Lord's  Prayer,  the  Apos- 
tles' Creed,  the  Parable  of  the  Ten  Virgins,  the  Par- 
able of  the  Rich  Man  and  Lazarus,  the  Beatitudes,  the 
fifteenth  Psalm,  the  one  hundred  and  twentieth  Psalm, 


Greatnefs  in  Littlenefs.  153 

the  one  hundred  and  thirty-third  Psalm,  the  one  hun- 
dred and  thirty-first  Psalm,  and  the  figures  "  1860." 
Every  word,  every  letter,  and  every  point,  of  all  these 
passages  was  written  exquisitely  on  this  minute  space  ; 
and  that  old  man  not  only  saw  every  mark  he  made, 
but  had  the  delicacy  of  muscular  action  and  steadiness 
of  nerve  to  form  the  letters  so  beautifully  that  they 
abide  the  test  of  the  highest  magnifying  power.  They 
were,  of  course,  written  by  microscopic  aid. 

Now  who  believes  that  it  does  not  require  more 
genius  and  skill  to  execute  this  minute  work  than  it 
does  to  bore  a  Hoosac  tunnel,  or  build  a  Victoria  bridge, 
or  put  a  dam  across  the  Connecticut,  or  construct  an 
Erie  canal  ?  I  do  not  speak  of  the  relative  importance 
of  the  great  works  and  the  small,  but  of  the  relative 
amount  and  quality  of  the  power  that  is  brought  to 
bear  upon  them.  In  a  very  important  sense  the  great- 
est thing  a  man  can  do  is  the  most  difficult  thing  he 
can  do.  The  most  difficult  thing  a  man  can  do  may 
not  be  the  most  useful,  or  in  any  sense  the  most  im- 
portant ;  but  it  will  measure  and  show  the  limits  of  his 
power.  Work  grows  difficult  as  it  goes  below  a  man, 
quite  as  rapidly  as  it  does  when  it  rises  above  him.  It 
costs  as  much  skill  to  make  a  dainty  bit  of  jewelry  as 
it  does  to  carve  a  colossal  statue.  It  actually  costs 
more  power  to  make  the  chain  of  gold  that  holds  the 
former,  than  it  does  to  forge  the  clumsy  links  by  which 


154  Leffons  in  Life, 

the  latter  is  dragged  to  its  location.  Thus,  whether 
man  goes  down  or  up,  he  soon  gets  beyond  the  sphere 
of  his  power.  The  further  he  can  carry  himself  in  either 
direction  the  more  does  he  demonstrate  his  superiority 
over  the  majority  of  men.  The  more  difficult  the  task 
which  he  performs  the  further  does  he  reach  toward 
infinity. 

In  the  town  of  Waltham  there  is  a  manufactory  of 
watches  which  I  have  examined  with  great  interest. 
It  is  here  undertaken  to  organize  the  skill  which  has 
been  achieved  by  thousands  of  patient  hands,  and  sub- 
mit it  to  machinery  ;  and  it  is  done.  Every  thing  is  so 
systematized,  and  the  operations  are  carried  on  with 
such  exactness,  that,  among  a  hundred  watches,  cor- 
responding parts  may  be  interchanged  Avithout  embar- 
rassment to  the  machinery.  The  different  parts  are 
passed  from  hand  to  hand,  and  from  machine  to  ma- 
chine, each  hand  and  each  machine  simply  doing  its 
duty,  and  when  from  different  and  distant  rooms  these 
parts  are  assembled,  and  cunning  fingers  put  them 
together,  every  wheel  knows  its  place,  and  every  pivot 
and  every  screw  its  home,  though  it  be  picked  without 
discrimination  from  a  dish  containing  ten  thousand. 
Yet  among  these  parts  there  are  screws  of  which  it 
takes  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  to  make  a  pound, 
and  shafts  and  bearings  which  are  so  delicately  turned 
that  five  thousand  shavings  will  only  extend  a  lineal 


Greatnefs  in  Littlenefs  155 

inch  along  the  steel.  This  is  the  way  American  watches 
are  made,  and  this  is  the  way  in  which  the  highest 
practicable  perfection  is  reached  in  the  manufacture 
of  these  pocket  monitors. 

Here  we  have  small  work,  organized,  and  great 
elaboration  of  related  details.  "When  Dr.  Scott  wrote 
his  passages  on  the  card,  his  work  was  very  simple.  He 
did  only  one  thing — he  made  letters.  When  he  had 
made  letter  after  letter  until  the  little  space  was  filled, 
his  work  was  done.  It  was  not  a  part  of  some  compli- 
cated and  inter-dependent  whole,  related  to  a  thousand 
other  parts  in  other  hands.  I  suppose  it  may  be  as 
delicate  work  to  drill  a  jewel  with  a  hair  of  steel,  armed 
with  paste  of  diamond-dust,  as  to  write  "  Our  Father" 
under  a  microscope ;  but  when  the  jewel  has  to  be 
drilled  with  relation  to  the  reception  of  a  revolving 
metallic  pivot,  the  process  becomes  very  much  nicer. 
So  here  are  a  hundred  processes  going  on  at  the  same 
time,  in  different  parts  of  a  building,  all  related  to  each 
other,  each  delicate  almost  beyond  description,  and 
effected  with  such  precision  that  a  mistake  is  so  much 
an  exception  that  it  is  a  surprise.  I  have  seen  the 
huge  steam  engines  at  Scranton  which  furnish  power 
for  the  blast  of  the  furnaces  there,  and  their  magnitude 
and  power  and  most  impressive  majesty  of  movement 
have  made  me  tremble  ;  yet  as  works  of  man  they  are 
no  greater  than  a  Waltham  watch. 


156  Leffons  in  Life. 

It  seems  to  me  that  man  occupies  a  position  just 
half  way  between  infinite  greatness  and  infinite  little- 
ness, and  that  he  can  neither  ascend  nor  descend  to 
any  considerable  degree  without  bringing  up  against  a 
wall  which  shows  where  man  ends  and  God  begins.  It 
seems,  too,  that  that  kind  of  human  power  which  can 
reach  down  deepest  into  the  infinite  littleness,  is  more 
remarkable  than  that  which  rises  highest  toward  the 
infinite  greatness.  It  is  a  more  difficult  and  a  more 
remarkable  thing  to  write  the  Lord's  Prayer  on  a  single 
line  less  than  an  inch  long,  than  it  would  be  to  paint  it 
on  the  face  of  the  Palisades,  upon  a  line  a  mile  long,  in 
letters  the  length  of  the  painter's  ladder.  I  have  heard 
of  a  watch  so  small  that  it  was  set  in  a  ring,  and  worn 
upon  the  finger;  and  such  a  watch  seems  very  much 
more  marvellous  to  me  than  the  engines  of  the  Great 
Eastern. 

We  are  in  the  habit  of  regarding  God  as  the  author 
of  all  the  great  movements  of  the  universe,  but  as  hav- 
ing nothing  to  do  directly  with  the  minor  movements. 
Mr.  Emerson  becomes  equally  flippant  and  irreverent 
when  he  speaks  of  a  "pistareen  Providence."  We 
kindly  take  the  Creator  and  upholder  of  all  things  under 
our  patronage,  and  say,  "  it  is  very  well  for  him  to 
swing  a  star  into  space,  and  set  bounds  to  the  sea,  and 
order  the  goings  of  great  systems,  and  even  to  minis- 
ter to  the  lives  of  great  men,  but  when  it  comes  to 


Greatnefs  in  Littlenefs.  157 

meddling  with  the  little  affairs  of  the  daily  life  of  a 
thousand  millions  of  men,  women,  and  children — 
pshaw !  He's  above  all  that." 

Not  so  fast,  Mr.  Emerson!  The  real  reason  why 
you  and  all  those  who  are  like  you  do  not  believe  in 
God's  intimate  cognizance  and  administration  of  human 
affairs  is,  that  you  cannot  comprehend  them.  You  have 
not  faith  enough  in  God  to  believe  that  he  is  able  to 
maintain  this  knowledge  of  human  affairs,  this  interest 
in  them,  and  the  power  and  the  disposition  to  mould 
-them  to  divine  issues.  You  are  willing  to  admit  that 
God  can  do  a  few  great  things,  but  you  are  not  willing 
to  admit  that  he  can  do  a  great  many  little  things.  It 
is  well  enough,  according  to  your  notion,  for  God  to 
make  a  mastodon,  or  a  megatherium,  but  quite  undig- 
nified for  him  to  undertake  a  mosquito  or  a  horse-fly. 
It  would  not  compromise  His  reputation  with  you  were 
you  to  catch  Him  lighting  a  sun,  or  watching  with 
something  of  interest  the  rise  and  fall  of  a  great 
nation,  but  actually  to  listen  to  the  prayer  of  a  little 
child,  and  to  answer  that  prayer  with  distinctness  of 
purpose  and  definite  exercise  of  power,  would  not,  in 
your  opinion,  be  dignified  and  respectable  business  for 
a  being  whom  you  are  proud  to  have  the  honor  of  wor- 
shipping ! 

I  do  not  know  how  these  people  who  do  not  be- 
lieve in  the  intimate  special  providence  of  God  can 


158  Leffons  in  Life. 

believe  in  God  at  all.  I  can  conceive  how  God  could 
rear  Mont  Blanc,  but  I  cannot  conceive  how  He 
could  make  a  honey  bee,  and  endow  that  honey  bee 
•with  an  instinct — transmitted  since  the  creation  from 
bee  to  bee,  and  swarm  to  swarm — which  binds  it 
in  membership  to  a  commonwealth,  and  enables  it 
to  build  its  waxen  cells  with  mathematical  exactness, 
and  gather  honey  from  all  the  flowers  of  the  field. 
It  is  when  we  go  into  the  infinity  below  us  that 
the  infinite  power  and  skill  become  the  most  evident. 
When  the  microscope  shows  us  life  in  myriad  forms, 
each  of  which  exhibits  design ;  when  we  contemplate 
vegetable  life  in  its  wonderful  details ;  wrhen  chemis- 
try reveals  to  us  something  of  the  marvellous  processes 
by  which  vitality  is  fed,  we  get  a  more  impressive  sense 
of  the  power  and  skill  of  the  Creator  than  we  do  when 
we  turn  the  telescope  toward  the  heavens.  Yet  Mr. 
Emerson  would  have  us  believe  that  the  Being  who 
saw  fit  to  make  all  these  little  things,  to  arrange  and 
throw  into  relation  all  these  masses  of  detail,  to  paint 
the  plumage  of  a  bird,  and  the  back  of  a  fly,  as  richly 
as  he  paints  the  drapery  of  the  descending  sun,  does 
not  condescend  to  take  practical  interest  in  the  affairs 
of  men  and  women!  My  God,  what  blindness!  Bird, 
bee,  blossom — be  my  teacher.  I  do  not  like  Mr.  Em- 
erson's lesson. 

The  logical  sequence  of  disbelief  in  what  Mr.  Emer- 


Greatnefs  in  Littlenefs.  159 

son  calls  a  "  pistareen  Providence  "  is  a  belief  in  pan- 
theism or  polytheism.  There  is  certainly  nothing 
ridiculous  in  the  faith  that  the  Being  who  contrived 
and  arranged,  and  adjusted  the  infinite  littlenesses  of 
creation,  and  ordained  their  laws,  and  who  continues 
their  existence,  maintains  an  intimate  interest  in  the 
only  intelligent  creatures  he  has  placed  in  this  wond. 
The  little  bird  that  sings  to  me,  the  bee  that  bears  me 
honey,  the  blossom  that  brings  me  perfume,  all  testify 
to  me  that  He  who  created  them  will  not  neglect  nor 
forget  His  own  child.  If  I  look  up  into  the  firmament, 
and  send  my  imagination  into  its  deep  abysses,  and 
think  that  further  than  even  dreams  can  go,  those 
abysses  are  strewn  with  stars ;  if  I  think  of  comets 
coming  and  going  with  the  rush  of  lightning,  and  yet 
occupying  whole  centuries  in  their  journey;  or  if  I 
only  sit  down  by  the  sea,  and  think  of  the  waves  that 
kiss  other  shores  thousands  of  miles  away,  I  am  op- 
pressed by  a  sense  of  my  own  littleness.  I  ask  the 
question  whether  the  God  who  has  such  large  things 
in  His  care,  can  think  of  me — a  speck  on  an  infinite 
aggregate  of  surface — a  mote  uneasily  shifting  in  the 
boundless  space.  I  get  no  hope  in  this  direction ;  but 
I  look  down,  and  find  that  the  shoulders  of  all  inferior 
creation  are  under  me,  lifting  me  into  the  very  pres- 
ence of  God.  I  find  that  God  has  been  at  work  below 
me,  in  a  mass  of  minute  and  munificent  detail,  by  the 


160  Leflbns  in  Life. 

side  of  which  my  life  is  great  and  simple,  and  satisfy- 
ingly  significant. 

So,  if  I  may  not  believe  in  a  "pistareen  Provi- 
dence," I  must  make  a  God  of  the  universe  itself,  or 
pass  into  the  hands  of  many  Gods  the  world's  creation 
and  governance.  If  the  God  that  made  the  bee,  and 
the  ant,  and  the  daisy,  made  me,  then  He  is  not  above 
taking  care  of  me,  and  of  maintaining  an  interest  in  the 
smallest  affairs  of  my  life.  The  faith  that  lives  in  rea- 
son is  never  stronger  than  when  it  stands  on  flowers. 
There  is  not  a  fly  that  floats,  nor  a  fish  that  swims,  nor 
an  animalcule  that  navigates  its  little  drop  of  sea-spray, 
but  bears  a  burden  of  hope  to  despairing  humanity. 
"  If  God  so  clothe  the  grass  which  to-day  is,  and  to- 
morrow is  cast  into  the  oven,"  then  what,  Mr.  Em- 
erson ? 

This  subject  is  a  very  large  one,  and  I  can  present 
only  one  more  phase  of  it.  A  great  multitude — the 
larger  part,  in  fact — of  the  human  race  are  engaged  in 
doing  small  work.  It  may  be  a  comfort  for  them  to 
know  that  the  Almighty  Maker  of  all  things  has  done 
a  great  deal  of  the  same  kind  of  work,  and  has  not 
found  it  unworthy  or  unprofitable  employment.  Let 
them  remember  that  it  is  just  as  hard  to  do  a  small 
thing  well  as  a  large  thing,  and  that  the  difficulty  of  a 
deed  is  the  gauge  of  the  power  required  for  its  doing. 
Let  them  remember  that  when  they  go  down,  they  are 


Greatnefs  in  Littlenefs.  161 

going  just  as  directly  toward  infinity  as  when  they  go 
up,  and  that  every  man  who  works  Godward,  works 
in  honor. 

It  was  a  very  forcible  reflection  to  which  a  visitor 
at  Niagara  Falls  gave  utterance,  when  he  said  that, 
considering  the  relative  power  of  their  authors,  he  did 
not  regard  the  cataract  as  so  remarkable  a  piece  of 
work  as  the  Suspension  Bridge ;  and  it  may  be  said 
with  truth  that  there  is  no  work  within  the  power  of 
man  so  small  that  God  has  not  been  below  it  in  a 
work  smaller  and  possibly  humbler  still, — certainly  hum- 
bler when  we  consider  the  infinite  majesty  and  the  in- 
effable dignity  of  His  character.  My  maid  is  too  proud 
to  go  into  the  street  for  a  pail  of  milk ;  my  God  smiles 
upon  me  in  flowers  from  the  very  gutter.  My  neigh- 
bor thinks  it  beneath  him  to  till  the  soil,  working  with 
his  hands,  but  the  Being  who  made  him,  breathes  upon 
that  soil,  and  works  in  it,  that  it  may  bear  food  to  keep 
human  dignity  from  starving.  There  are  men  who  set 
themselves  above  driving  a  horse,  no  part  of  which  the 
King  of  the  universe  was  above  making.  Ah !  human 
pride !  Alas !  human  dignity !  I  do  not  know  what 
to  make  of  you. 


LESSON  XII. 

ETTEAL   LIFE. 

"Going  into  a  village  at  night,  with  the  lights  gleaming  on  each  side  of  the 
street,  in  some  houses  they  will  be  in  the  basement  and  nowhere  else." 

BEECHEK. 

"  The  little  God  o'  the  world  jogs  on  the  same  old  way, 
And  is  as  singular  as  on  the  world's  first  day. 
A  pity  'tis  thou  shouldst  have  given 

The  fool,  to  make  hitn  worse,  a  gleam  of  light  from  heaven; 
lie  calls  it  reason,  using  it 
To  bo  more  beast  than  ever  beast  was  yet 
He  seems  to  me,  (your  grace  the  words  will  pardon,) 
Like  a  long-legged  grasshopper,  in  the  garden, 
Forever  on  the  wing,  and  hops  and  sings 
The  same  old  song,  as  in  the  grass  he  springs." 

GOETUE'S  FAUST. 

IT  is  a  common  remark  that  a  railroad  car  is  an  ex- 
cellent place  in  which  to  study  human  nature ;  but 
the 'particular  phase  of  human  nature  "which  is  usually 
presented  there  is  not,  I  think,  sufficiently  attractive  to 
engage  a  man  who  desires  to  maintain  a  good  opinion 
of  his  race.  I  would  as  soon  think  of  studying  human 


Rural  Life.  163 

nature  in  a  pig-pen  as  in  a  railroad  car.  I  do  not  like 
to  study  even  my  own  nature  there,  for  I  find  that  the 
more  I  ride,  the  more  selfish  I  become,  and  the  more 
desirable  it  seems  to  me  that  I  should  occupy  the  space 
usually  assigned  to  four  men,  viz. :  two  seats  for  my 
feet,  and  two  for  such  other  portions  of  my  person  as 
are  not  required  for  spanning  the  space  between  the 
sofas.  It  must  be  a  matter  of  regret  to  most  persons, 
I  am  sure,  that  they  are  not  large  enough  to  cover 
twice  as  many  seats  as  they  do,  and  thus  drive  those 
who  travel  with  them  into  more  close  and  inconvenient 
quarters.  "Whenever  I  witness  an  instance  of  genuine, 
self-sacrificing  politeness  in  a  railroad  car,  I  become 
aware  that  there  is  at  least  one  man  on  the  train 
who  has  travelled  very  little.  No ;  when  I  travel  I 
turn  my  observation  upon  things  outside — upon  the 
farms  and  streams,  and  mountains  and  forests,  and 
towns  and  villages  through  which  the  train  bears  me. 
I  am  particularly  interested  in  the  faces  of  those  who 
gather  at  the  smaller  stations  to  gaze  at  the  passengers, 
get  the  papers,  and  feel  the  rush,  for  a  single  moment, 
of  the  world's  great  life.  I  love  to  listen  to  the  smart 
remarks  of  some  rustic  wit  in  shirt-sleeves,  who,  if  the 
train  should  happen  to  be  behind  time,  intimates  to  the 
brakeman  that  the  old  horse  didn't  have  his  allowance 
of  oats  that  morning,  or  commiserates  the  loneliness  of 
the  conductor  of  a  train  not  crowded  with  passen- 


164  Leflbns  in  Life. 

gers, — all  of  which  is  intended  for  the  ears  of  a  village 
girl  who  stands  in  the  door  of  the  "  Ladies'  Room," 
with  the  tip  of  a  parasol  in  her  teeth,  and  a  hat  on  her 
head  that  was  jaunty  last  year. 

Riding  into  the  country  recently,  I  saw  at  one  of 
these  little  stations  a  pair  of  young  men,  leaning 
against  the  station-house.  They  had  evidently  been 
waiting  for  the  approach  of  the  train,  but  they  did  not 
stir  from  their  positions.  They  were  young  men  whose 
life  had  been  spent  in  severe  and  unremitting  toil. 
Their  hands  were  large,  and  coarse,  and  brown ;  their 
faces  and  necks  wei-e  bronzed ;  their  clothing  was  of 
the  commonest  material  and  pattern,  and  was  old  and 
patched  besides ;  and  they  had  a  hard  look  generally. 
There  was  the  usual  bustle  about  them,  but  they  did 
not  seem  to  mind  it.  At  last,  they  started,  and  these 
are  the  words  that  one  of  them  spoke :  "  Come,  Bob, 
let's  go  over  and  see  if  we  can't  tuck  away  some  of  that 
grub."  So  both  turned  their  backs  upon  the  train,  and 
upon  me ;  and  as  they  went  over  to  see  if  they  couldn't 
"  tuck  away  some  of  that  grub,"  I  got  a  view  of  their 
heavy  shoulders,  and  their  shambling,  awkAvard  gait. 
A  pair  of  old  draft  horses,  going  out  in  the  morning  to 
take  their  places  in  front  of  their  truck,  would  not 
move  more  stiffly  than  those  fellows  moved. 

Now  these  young  men  taught  me  nothing,  for  I 
had  seen  many  such  before ;  but  through  them  I  took 


Rural  Life.  165 

a  fresh  and  a  very  impressive  glimpse  into  a  style  of 
life  that  abounds  among  the  rural  population  of  Amer- 
ica, and  shows  but  feeble  signs  of  improvement.  These 
men,  who,  when  they  eat,  only  "  tuck  away  grub,"  of 
course  "go  to  roost"  when  they  sleep.  They  call  the 
sun  "  Old  Yaller,"  naming  him  in  honor  of  a  favorite 
ox.  When  they  undress  themselves  "  they  peel  off," 
as  if  they  were  onions  or  potatoes ;  and  when  they  put 
themselves  into  their  Sunday  clothing,  they  "  surprise 
their  backs  with  a  clean  shirt."  When  they  marry, 
they  "  hitch  on,"  as  if  matrimony  were  a  sled,  and  a 
wife  were  a  saw-log.  Every  thing  in  their  life  is  brought 
down  to  the  animal  basis,  and  why  should  it  not  be  ? 
They  labor  as  severely  as  any  animal  they  own ;  they 
are  proud  of  their  animal  strength  and  endurance ;  they 
eat,  and  work,  and  sleep,  like  animals,  and  they  do 
nothing  like  men.  Their  frames  are  shaped  by  labor ; 
and  they  are  only  the  best  animals,  and  the  ruling  ani- 
mals, on  their  farms.  As  between  the  wives  and  chil- 
dren who  live  in  their  houses,  arid  the  horses  and  cattle 
that  live  in  their  barns,  the  latter  have  the  easier  time 
of  it. 

Having  brought  every  thing  down  to  the  animal 
basis  in  their  homes  and  in  their  lives,  their  intercourse 
with  other  men  will  naturally  betray  the  ideas  upon 
which  they  live.  They  are  usually  very  blunt  men, 
who  "  never  go  round  "  to  say  any  thing,  but  who  blurt 


166  Leffons  in  Life. 

out  what  they  have  to  say  in  a  manner  entirely  regard- 
less of  the  feelings  of  others.  They  enter  each  other's 
houses  with  their  hats  on,  and  "  help  themselves  "  when 
they  sit  at  each  other's  tables,  and  affect  great  con- 
tempt for  the  courtesies  and  forms  of  polite  life.  They 
are  exceedingly  afraid  of  being  looked  upon  as  "  stuck 
up ; "  and  if  they  can  get  the  reputation  of  being  able 
to  mow  more  grass,  or  pitch  more  hay,  or  chop  and 
pile  more  wood,  or  cradle  more  grain,  than  any  of  their 
neighbors,  their  ambition  is  satisfied.  There  is  no  dig- 
nity of  life  in  their  homes.  They  cook  and  eat  and  live 
in  the  same  room,  and  sometimes  sleep  there,  if  there 
should  be  room  enough  for  a  bed.  There  is  no  family 
life  that  is  not  associated  with  work,  and  no  thought 
of  any  life  that  is  not  connected  with  bodily  labor ;  and 
if  they  sit  down  five  minutes,  either  at  home  or  at 
church,  they  go  to  sleep.  Their  highest  intellectual  ex- 
ercise is  that  which  is  called  out  by  the  process  of 
swapping  hoi-ses,  and  the  selling  of  their  weekly  prod- 
uct of  eggs  and  butter  at  the  highest  market  price. 
They  invariably  call  their  wives — "the  old  woman," 
or  "  she ; "  and  if  they  should  stumble  into  saying, 
"my  dear,"  in  the  presence  of  a  neighbor,  they  would 
blush  at  being  self  convicted  of  unjustifiable  politeness 
and  unpardonable  weakness. 

These  men  have  learned  to  read,  but  they  rarely 
read  any  thing,  except  the  weekly  newspaper,  taken 


Rural  Life.  167 

exclusively  for  the  probate  notices.  The  only  books  in 
their  houses  are  the  Bible  and  two  or  three  volumes 
forced  upon  them  at  unguarded  moments  by  book- 
agents,  who  made  the  most  of  internal  wood-cuts,  and 
external  Dutch  metal  to  place  them  in  possession  of  the 
"  History  of  the  World,"  or  the  "  Lives  of  the  Presi- 
dents," or  some  other  production  equally  extensive  and 
comprehensive.  There  is  no  exhibition  of  taste  about 
their  dwellings.  Every  thing  is  brought  down  to  the 
hard  standard  of  use.  If  their  wives  should  desire  a 
border  for  flowers,  they  regard  them  as  very  silly,  and 
look  upon  their  attempts  to  "  fix  up  things  "  as  a  great 
waste  of  labor.  They  never  go  out  with  their  wives  to 
mingle  in  the  social  life  of  their  neighborhood;  and  if 
the  wives  of  their  neighbors  come  to  spend  an  after- 
noon, they  harness  their  horses,  and  drive  off  to  attend 
to  some  distant  business  that  will  detain  them  until  the 
women  get  away.  It  is  useless  to  say  to  me  that  this 
is  an  extreme  picture,  for  I  know  what  I  am  writing 
about,  and  know  that  I  am  painting  from  the  life.  I 
know  that  there  are  hundreds  of  thousands  of  Ameri- 
can farmers  whose  life  and  whose  ideas  of  life  are  cast 
upon  these  models.  Some  of  these  are  as  coarse  and 
hard  as  I  paint  them,  and  others  are  only  a  little  better. 
Such  a  farmer's  boy  is  brought  up  to  the  idea  that 
work  is  the  grand  thing  in  life.  Work,  indeed,  is  sup- 
posed by  him  to  be  pretty  much  all  of  life.  It  is  sup- 


168  Leffbns  in  Life. 

posed  to  spoil  farmers  to  get  any  thing  but  work  into 
their  heads ;  and  scientific  agriculturists  will  bear  wit- 
ness that  they  have  been  obliged  to  fight  the  popular 
prejudices  against  "book  farming"  at  every  step  of 
their  progress.  They  will  also  testify  that  the  improve- 
ments made  in  farming  and  in  the  implements  of  agri- 
culture have  not  been  made  by  farmers  themselves,  but 
by  outsiders — mechanics,  and  men  of  science — who  have 
marvelled  at  the  brainless  stupidity  which  toiled  on  in 
its  old  track  of  unreasoning  routine,  and  looked  with 
suspicion  and  discouragement  upon  innovations.  The 
reason  why  the  farmer  has  not  been  foremost  in  im- 
proving the  instruments  and  methods  of  his  own  busi- 
ness, is,  that  his  mind  has  been  unfitted  for  improve- 
ment by  the  excessive  labors  of  his  body.  A  man 
whose  whole  vital  energy  is  directed  to  the  support  of 
muscle  has,  of  course,  none  to  direct  to  the  support  of 
thought.  A  man  whose  strength  is  habitually  exhaust- 
ed by  bodily  labor  becomes,  at  length,  incapable  of 
mental  exertion ;  and  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  half  of 
the  farmers  of  the  country  establish  insuperable  obsta- 
cles to  their  own  improvement  by  their  excessive  toil. 
They  are  nothing  more  than  the  living  machines  of  a 
calling  which  so  far  exhausts  their  vitality  that  they 
have  neither  the  disposition  nor  the  power  to  improve 
either  their  calling  or  themselves. 

To  a  student  or  a  literary  man,  it  is  easy  to  explain 


Rural  Life.  169 

the  necessity  of  the  proper  division  of  the  nervous 
energies  between  the  mind  and  the  body.  Any  student 
or  literary  man  who  has  a  daily  mental  task  to  do,  will 
do  it  before  he  exercises  his  body  to  any  great  extent. 
If  I  wished  to  unfit  my  mind  for  a  day  of  literary  labor, 
I  would  use  the  hoe  in  my  garden  for  an  early  hour  in 
the  morning.  If  I  wished  utterly  to  unfit  a  pupil  for 
his  daily  task  of  study,  I  would  put  him  through  an 
exhausting  walk  before  breakfast.  The  direction  of  all 
the  nervous  energies  to  the  support  of  the  muscular 
system,  and  the  necessary  draft  upon  the  digestive  and 
nutritive  functions  to  supply  the  muscular  waste,  leave 
the  mind  temporarily  a  bankrupt.  I  have  never  seen 
a  man  who  was  really  remarkable  for  acquired  muscu- 
lar power,  and,  at  the  same  time,  remarkable  for  men- 
tal power.  A  man  may  be  born  into  the  world  with 
a  fine  muscular  system  and  a  fine  brain,  and  in  early 
life  his  muscular  system  may  have  a  fine  development. 
Such  a  man  may  subsequently  have  a  remarkable  men- 
tal development,  but  this  development  will  never  be 
accompanied  by  large  and  regular  expenditures  of  mus- 
cular power.  If  I  wished  to  repress  the  mental  growth 
and  manifestation  of  a  man,  I  would  undertake  to  edu- 
cate him  up  to  the  point  of  lifting  eight  or  ten  kegs  of 
nails.  There  is  danger  at  first  of  overdoing  our  "  mus- 
cular Christianity" — danger  of  getting  more  muscle 
than  Christianity  ;  and  there  is  a  good  deal  more  dan- 


170  Leffons  in  Life. 

ger  of  overdoing  our  muscular  intellectuality.  The 
difference  between  the  kind  and  amount  of  exercise 
necessary  to  produce  a  healthy  machine  and  the  kind 
and  amount  necessary  to  produce  a  powerful  one,  is 
very  great.  We  are  never  to  look  for  great  intellec- 
tuality in  a  professor  of  gymnastics,  nor  to  expect  that 
the  time  will  come  when  a  man  will  not  only  walk  a 
thousand  miles  in  a  thousand  hours,  but  compose  a  poem 
of  a  thousand  lines  at  the  same  time. 

If  the  temporary  diversion  of  the  nervous  energy 
from  the  brain  have  this  effect,  what  must  a  permanent 
diversion  accomplish  ?  It  will  accomplish  precisely 
what  is  indicated  by  the  look  and  language  of  our  two 
young  friends  at  the  station-house.  It  will  develop 
muscle  for  the  uses  of  a  special  calling,  and  make  ugly 
and  clumsy  men  of  those  who  should  be  symmetrical ; 
and  at  the  same  time  it  will  repress  mental  develop- 
ment, and  permanently  limit  mental  growth — at  least, 
so  long  as  the  mind  shall  be  associated  with  the  body. 
I  suppose  that  every  fecundated  germ  of  human  being 
is  endowed  with  a  certain  possibility  of  development — 
a  complement  of  vital  energy  which  will  be  expended 
in  various  directions,  accord  ing  to  the  circumstances 
which  may  surround  it  and  the  will  of  its  possessor.  If 
it  shall  be  mainly  expended  upon  the  growth  and  sus- 
tentation  of  muscle,  it  will  not  be  expended  upon  the 
growth  and  sustentation  of  mind  ;  and  I  have  no  hesi- 


Rural  Life.  171 

tatioa  in  saying  that  it  is  an  absolute  impossibility  for  a 
man  who  engages  in  hard  bodily  labor  every  day  to  be 
brilliant  in  intellectual  manifestation.  The  tide  of  such 
a  man's  life  does  not  set  in  that  direction.  An  hour- 
glass has  in  it  a  definite  quantity  of  sand  ;  and  when  I 
turn  it  over,  that  sand  falls  from  the  upper  apartment 
into  the  lower ;  and  while  it  occupies  that  position  it 
will  continue  to  fall  until  the  former  is  exhausted  and 
the  latter  is  filled.  Moreover,  it  will  never  take  its 
place  at  the  other  end  of  the  instrument,  until  it  is 
turned  back.  It  is  precisely  thus  with  a  human  con- 
stitution. The  grand  vital  current  moves  only  in  one 
direction,  and  when  it  is  moving  toward  muscle  it  is 
not  moving  toward  mind,  and  when  it  is  moving  tow- 
ard mind  it  is  not  moving  toward  muscle.  This  fact 
is  illustrated  sufficiently  by  the  phenomena  of  digestion. 
After  a  man  has  eaten  a  hearty  dinner,  he  becomes 
dull,  even  to  drowsiness  or  perfect  sleep.  Why  ?  Sim- 
ply because  the  tide  of  nervous  energy  sets  towards 
digestion,  and  there  is  not  enough  left  to  carry  on  men- 
tal or  voluntary  muscular  operations. 

A  resident  of  a  city  riding  into  the  country,  espe- 
cially if  he  be  an  intellectual  man,  and  engaged  in  intel- 
lectual pursuits,  will  be  thrilled  by  what  he  sees  around 
him.  The  life  of  the  farmer,  planted  in  the  midst  of 
so  much  that  is  beautiful,  having  to  do  with  nature's 
marvellous  miracles  of  germination  and  growth,  moving 


172  Leffons  in  Life. 

under  the  open  heaven  with  its  glory  of  sky  and  me- 
teoric change,  and  accompanied  by  the  songs  of  birds 
and  all  characteristic  rural  sights  and  sounds,  will  seem 
to  him  the  sweetest  and  the  most  enviable  that  falls  to 
human  lot.  But  the  hard-working  farmer  sees  nothing 
of  this.  What  cares  he  for  birds,  unless  they  pull  up 
his  corn  ?  What  cares  he  for  skies,  unless  he  can  make 
use  of  them  for  drying  his  hay,  or  wetting  down  his 
potatoes?  The  beautiful  changes  of  nature  do  not 
touch  him.  His  sensibilities  are  deadened  by  hard 
work.  His  nervous  system  is  all  imbedded  in  muscle, 
and  does  not  lie  near  enough  to  the  surface  to  be  reach- 
ed by  the  beauty  and  music  around  him.  Ah1  he  knows 
about  a  daisy  is  that  it  does  not  make  good  hay ;  and 
he  draws  no  appreciable  amount  of  the  pleasure  of  his 
life  from  those  surroundings  which  charm  the  sensibili- 
ties of  others. 

We  are  in  the  habit  of  regarding  the  farming  pop- 
ulation of  the  country  as  the  most  moral  and  religious 
of  any,  yet  if  we  look  at  them  critically,  we  shall  find 
that  their  piety  is  of  a  negative,  rather  than  a  positive 
character.  They  are  men  in  the  first  place  who  have 
very  few  temptations,  either  from  without  or  from 
within.  There  are  no  professional  tempters  around 
them  to  lure  them  into  the  more  seductive  paths  of 
sin.  The  woman  whose  steps  take  hold  on  hell  does 
not  pass  their  doors ;  the  gambler  spreads  no  snares 


Rural  Life.  173 

for  them  ;  no  gilded  palace  invites  them  to  music  and 
intoxicating  draughts ;  they  are  not  maddened  by  am- 
bition ;  and  they  have  no  vanity  that  leads  them  to  de- 
grading and  ruinous  display.  If  they  are  little  assailed 
from  without,  they  are  not  more  moved  toward  vice  from 
within.  The  fact  that  their  vital  energies  are  all  expend- 
ed upon  labor  relieves  them  from  the  motives  of  temp- 
tation. Men  whose  muscles  are  overworked  have  no 
vitality  to  expend  upon  vices.  The  devil  cannot  make 
much  out  of  a  man  who  is  both  tired  and  sleepy.  If  we 
inquire  of  the  ministers  who  have  charge  of  rural  par- 
ishes, they  will  usually  tell  us  that  an  audience  of  me- 
chanics is  better  than  an  audience  of  farmers,  and  that 
the  miscellaneous  audience  of  a  city  is  better  than  either. 
It  is  impossible  for  men  who  have  devoted  every  bodily 
energy  they  possess  to  hard  labor  during  the  waking 
hours  of  six  days,  to  go  to  church  and  keep  brightly 
awake  on  the  seventh.  Country  ministers  will  also 
admit  that  they  have  in  their  parishes  less  help  in  social 
and  conference  meetings  than  the  pastors  of  city  par- 
ishes, and  that  no  great  movements  of  benevolence 
ever  originate  in,  or  are  carried  on  by,  rural  churches. 
As  a  matter  of  course,  life  cannot  have  much  dig- 
nity or  much  that  is  characteristically  human  in  it 
unless  it  be  based  upon  active  intellectualitypgenuine 
sensibility,  a  development  of  the  finer  affections,  and 
positive  Christian  virtue.  When  a  man  is  a  man,  he 


174  Leffons  in  Life. 

never  "  tucks  in  grub."  When  a  man  lies  down  for 
i-est  and  sleep  he  does  not  "  go  to  roost."  To  a  man, 
marriage  is  something  more  than  "  hitching  on,"  and  a 
dirty  shirt  is  a  good  deal  more  of  a  "  surprise"  to  a 
man's  back  than  a  clean  one.  There  is  no  doubt  about 
the  fact  that  a  life  whose  whole  energies  are  expended 
in  hard  bodily  labor  is  such  a  life  as  God  never  intended 
man  should  live.  I  do  not  wonder  that  men  fly  from 
this  life  and  gather  into  the  larger  villages  and  cities, 
to  get  some  employment  which  will  leave  them  leisure 
for  living.  Life  was  intended  to  be  so  adjusted  that 
the  body  should  be  the  servant  of  the  soul,  and  always 
subordinate  to  the  soul.  It  was  never  meant  by  the 
Creator  that  the  soul  should  always  be  subordinate  to 
the  body,  or  sacrificed  to  the  body. 

I  am  perfectly  aware  that  I  am  not  revealing  pleas- 
ant truths.  We  are  very  much  in  the  habit  of  glorify- 
ing rural  life,  and  praising  the  intelligence  and  virtue 
of  rural  populations ;  and  if  they  believe  us,  they  cannot 
receive  what  I  write  upon  this  subject  with  pleasure. 
But  the  question  which  interests  these  people  most  is 
not  whether  my  statements  are  pleasant  but  whether 
they  are  true.  Is  the  philosophy  sound  ?  Are  the  facts 
as  they  are  represented  to  be  ?  Does  a  severe  and  con- 
stant tax  upon  the  muscular  system  repress  mental 
development,  and  tend  to  make  life  hard  and  homely 
and  unattractive  ?  Is  this  the  kind  of  life  generally 


Rural  Life.  175 

which  the  American  farmer  leads  ?  Is  not  the  American 
farmer,  generally,  a  man  who  has  sacrificed  a  free  and 
full  mental  development,  and  all  his  finer  sensibilities 
and  affections,  and  a  generous  and  genial  family  and 
social  life,  and  the  dignities  and  tasteful  proprieties  of 
a  well-appointed  home,  to  the  support  of  his  muscles  ? 
I  am  aware  that  there  are  instances  of  a  better  life  than 
this  among  the  farmers,  and  I  should  not  have  written 
this  article  if  those  instances  had  not  taught  me  that 
this  everlasting  devotion  to  labor  is  unnecessary.  There 
are  farmers  who  prosper  in  their  calling,  and  do  not 
become  stolid.  There  are  farmers  who  are  gentlemen 
— men  of  intelligence — whose  homes  are  the  abodes 
of  refinement,  whose  watchward  is  improvement,  and 
whose  aim  it  is  to  elevate  their  calling.  If  there  be  a 
man  on  the  earth  whom  I  honestly  honor  it  is  a  farmer 
who  has  broken  away  from  his  slavery  to  labor,  and 
applied  his  mind  to  his  soil. 

Mind  must  be  the  emancipator  of  the  farmer. 
Science,  intelligence,  machinery — these  must  liberate 
the  white  bondman  of  the  soil  from  his  long  slavery. 
When  I  look  back  and  see  what  has  been  done  for  the 
farmer  within  my  brief  memory,  I  am  full  of  hope  for 
the  future.  The  plough,  under  the  hand  of  science,  is 
become  a  new  instrument.  The  horse  now  hoes  the 
corn,  digs  the  potatoes,  mows  the  grass,  rakes  the  hay, 
reaps  the  wheat,  and  threshes  and  winnows  it ;  and 


176  Leffons  in  Life. 

every  day  adds  new  machinery  to  the  farmer's  stock, 
to  supei'sede  the  clumsy  implements  which  once  bound 
him  to  his  hard  and  never-ending  toil.  When  a  farmer 
begins  to  use  machinery  and  to  study  the  processes  of 
other  men,  and  to  apply  his  mind  to  farming  so  far  as  he 
can  make  it  take  the  place  of  muscle,  then  he  illumin- 
ates his  calling  with  a  new  light,  and  lifts  himself  into 
the  dignity  of  a  man.  If  mind  once  gets  the  upper 
hand,.it  will  serve  itself  and  see  that  the  body  is  prop- 
erly cared  for.  Intelligent  farming  is  dignified  living. 
For  a  farmer  who  reads  and  thinks,  and  studies  and 
applies,  nature  will  open  the  storehouse  of  her  secrets, 
and  point  the  way  to  a  life  full  of  dignity  and  beauty, 
and  grateful  and  improvable  leisure. 


LESSON  XIII. 

EEPOSE. 

Peace,  greatness  best  becomes ;  calm  power  doth  guide 
'With  a  far  more  imperious  stateliness 
Than  all  the  swords  of  violence  can  do, 
And  easier  gains  those  ends  she  tends  unto.'' 

DANIEL. 

When  headstrong  passion  gets  the  reins  of  reason, 
The  force  of  nature,  like  too  strong  a  gale, 
For  want  of  ballast  oversets  the  vessel." 

HIGGOXB. 

"  Give  rue  that  man 

That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 
In  my  heart's  core,  ay,  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 
As  I  do  thee."  SIIAKSPEBE. 

MRS.  FLUTTER  BUDGET  was'at  church  last 
Sunday.      She  always  is  at   church;    and  she 
never  forgets  her  fan.     I  have  known  her  for  many 
years,  and  have  never  known  her  to  be  in  church  with- 
out a  fan  in  her  hand,  and  some  article  upon  her  per- 
son that  rustled  constantly.     Her  black  silk  dress  is 
death  to  devotion  over  the  space  of  twenty  feet  on  all 
8* 


178  Leflbns  in  Life. 

sides  of  her.  She  fixes  the  wires  in  the  bonnets  of  her 
b'ttle  girls,  then  takes  their  hats  off  entirely,  then  wipes 
their  noses,  then  shakes  her  head  at  them,  then  makes 
them  exchange  seats  with  each  other,  then  finds  the 
text  and  the  hymns  for  them,  then  fusses  with  the 
cricket,  and  then  fans  herself  unremittingly  until  she 
can  see  something  else  to  do.  During  all  this  time,  and 
throughout  all  these  exercises,  the  one  article  of  dress 
upon  her  fidgety  person  that  has  rustle  in  it,  rustles. 
It  chafes  against  the  walls  of  silence  as  a  caged  bear 
chafes,  with  feverish  restlessness,  against  the  walls  of 
his  cell;  and  as  if  the  annoyance  of  one  sense  were  not 
sufficient,  she  seems  to  have  adopted  a  bob-and-sinker 
style  of  trimming,  for  hat  and  dress,  and  hair  and 
cloak,  and  every  thing  that  goes  to  make  up  her  exter-  / 
nals.  Little  pendants  are  everywhere — little  tassels,  and 
little  balls,  and  little  tufts — at  the  end  of  little  cords ; 
and  these  are  all  the  time  bobbing  up  and  down,  and 
trembling,  and  threatening  to  bob  up  and  down,  like — 

"The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can, 
Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high, 
On  the  topmost  bough  that  looks  up  at  the  sky." 

Any  person  who  sits  near  Mrs.  Flutter  Budget,  or  un- 
dertakes to  look  at  her  during  divine  service,  loses  all 
sense  of  repose,  and  all  power  of  reflection.  The  most 
solemn  exercises  in  which  the  mind  engages  cannot  be 


Repofe.  179 

carried  on  with  a  fly  upon  the  nose,  and  any  teasing  of 
a  single  sense,  whether  of  sight,  or  sound,  or  touch,  is 
fatal  to  religious  devotion.  I  presume  that  if  the  pas- 
tor wishes  to  find  the  most  sterile  portion  of  his  field, 
he  needs  only  to  ascertain  the  names  of  those  who  oc- 
cupy pews  in  the  vicinity  of  this  lively  little  lady.  Her 
husband  died  two  years  ago,  of  sleeplessness,  and  a 
harassing  system  of  nursing. 

The  Flatter  Budgets  are  a  numerous  family  in 
America.  They  are  not  all  as  restless  as  Madame,  but 
the  characteristics  of  the  blood  are  manifest  among 
them  all.  They  never  know  repose ;  and,  what  is 
worse  than  this,  they  dread  if  they  do  not  despise  it. 
They  are  immense  workers — not  that  they  do  more 
work,  and  harder  than  their  neighbors,  but  they  make 
a  great  fuss  about  it,  and  are  always  at  it.  They  rise 
early  in  the  morning,  and  they  sit  up  late  at  night; 
and  they  do  this  from  year's  end  to  year's  end,  whether 
they  really  have  any  thing  to  do  or  not.  They  cannot 
sit  still.  They  have  an  unhealthy  impression  that  it  is 
wrong  for  them  not  to  be  "  doing  something  "  all  the 
time.  Nothing  in  the  world  will  make  them  so  uncom- 
fortable and  so  restless  as  leisure.  Mrs.  Flutter  Budget 
could  no  more  sit  down  without  knitting-work,  or  a 
sock  to  darn,  in  her  hands,  than  she  could  fly.  As  she 
has  many  times  remarked,  she  would  die  if  she  could 
not  work.  To  her,  and  to  all  of  her  name  and  charac- 


180  Leflbns  in  Life. 

ter,  constant  action  seems  to  be  a  necessity.  The  crav- 
ing of  the  smoker  for  his  pipe  or  cigar,  the  incessant 
hankering  of  the  opium-eater  for  his  drug,  the  terrible 
thirst  of  the  drunkard  for  his  cups — all  these  are  legiti- 
mate illustrations  of  the  morbid  desire  of  the  Budgets 
for  action  or  motion.  The  man  who  has  the  habit  of 
using  narcotics  is  not  more  restless  and  unhappy  with- 
out his  accustomed  stimulus,  than  they  are  with  noth- 
ing to  do.  In  truth,  I  believe  the  desire  for  action 
may  become  just  as  morbid  a  passion  of  the  soul  as 
that  which  most  degrades  and  demoralizes  mankind. 

If  I  were  called  upon  to  define  happiness,  I  could 
possibly  give  no  definition  that  would  shut  out  the 
wrord  repose.  I  do  not  mean  by  this  that  no  person 
can  be  happy  except  in  a  state  of  repose,  but  I  mean, 
rather,  that  no  man  can  be  happy  to  whom  ri  pose  is 
impossible.  The  highest  definition  of  happiness  would 
probably  designate  the  consciousness  of  healthy  powers 
harmoniously  employed  as  among  its  prime  elements; 
but  there  can  be  no  happiness  that  deserves  its  name 
without  the  consciousness  of  powers  that  are  able  to 
subside  from  harmonious  action  into  painless  repose. 
I  know  a  little  girl  who  plays  out  of  doors  at 
night  as  long  as  she  can  see,  and  wrho,  when  called 
into  the  house,  takes  up  a  book  with  restless  greed 
for  mental  excitement,  and  then  beccs  to  be  read  to 

'  O 

sleep  after  she  has  been  required  to  put  down  her 


Repofe.  181 

book  and  go  to  bed.  She  would  be  called  a  happy 
child  by  those  who  see  her  playing  among  her  mates, 
yet  it  is  easy  to  perceive  that  her  happiness  is  limited 
to  a  single  attitude  and  condition  of  body  and  mind. 
A  happier  child  than  she  is  one  who  can  enjoy  open- 
air  play,  and  then  quietly  sit  down  at  her  mother's 
side  and  enjoy  rest.  That  is  an  inharmonious  and  un- 
healthy state  of  mind  which  chafes  with  leisure ;  and 
he  is  an  unhappy  man  who  cannot  sit  down  for  a  mo- 
ment without  reaching  for  a  newspaper,  or  looking 
about  him  for  some  quid  for  his  morbid  mind  to  chew 
upon.  So  I  count  no  man  truly  happy  who  cannot 
contentedly  sit  still  when  circumstances  release  his 
powers  from  labor,  and  who  does  not  reckon  among 
the  rewards  of  labor  a  peaceful  repose. 

No ;  Mrs.  Flutter  Budget  is  not  a  happy  woman ; 
and,  as  I  have  intimated  before,  she  seriously  interferes 
with  the  happiness  and  the  spiritual  prosperity  of  those 
about  her.  When  she  can  find  nothing  to  do,  then  she 
worries.  Those  children  of  hers  are  worried  nearly  to 
death.  If,  in  their  play,  they  get  any  dirt  upon  their 
faces,  they  are  sent  immediately  to  make  themselves 
clean.  If  they  soil  their  clothes,  they  are  shut  up  until 
reduced  to  a  proper  state  of  penitence.  They  are  kept 
out  of  all  draughts  of  air  for  fear  of  a  cold ;  and  if 
they  should  take  cold,  why,  they  must  take  medicine 
of  the  most  repulsive  character  as  a  penalty.  If  they 


182  Leffons  in  Life. 

cough  out  of  the  wrong  corner  of  their  mouths,  she 
suspects  them  of  croupy  intentions;  and  if  they 
venture,  at  some  unguarded  moment,  on  a  cuta- 
neous eruption,  they  are  immediately  charged  with 
the  measles,  or  accused  of  small-pox.  If  they  quietly 
sit  down  for  a  moment  of  repose,  she  apprehends 
sickness,  and  stirs  them  about  to  shake  it  off.  Even 
sleep  is  not  sacred  to  her,  for  if  she  finds  a  flushed 
face  among  the  harassed  little  slumberers,  she  wakes 
its  owner  to  make  affectionate  inquiries.  Her  husband, 
as  I  have  already  stated,  died  two  years  ago.  She 
worked  upon  his  nervous  system  to  such  an  extent 
that  he  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  world,  and  of  her.  I 
think  a  man  would  die,  after  awhile,  with  constantly 
looking  at  the  motion  of  a  saw-mill.  The  jar  of  a  loco- 
motive makes  the  toughest  iron  brittle  at  last ;  and  the 
wear  and  tear  of  a  restless  wife  are  beyond  the  strong- 
est man's  endurance. 

I  have  noticed  that  persons  who  have  influence 
upon  the  minds  of  others,  maintain  constantly  a  degree 
of  repose.  I  do  not  mean  that  those  have  most  influ- 
ence who  use  their  powers  sparingly,  but  that  a  certain 
degree,  of  mental  repose — or  what  may  possibly  be  called 
imperturbableness — is  necessary  to  influence.  Mrs.  Flut- 
ter Budget  always  talks  in  a  hurry,  and  talks  of  a  thou- 
sand things,  and  is  easily  excited.  Her  neighbor,  care- 
fully avoiding  the  causes  which  ruffle  her,  and  preserv- 


Repofe.  183 

ing  the  poise  of  her  faculties,  insists  on  her  point 
quietly,  and  carries  it.  The  repose  of  equanimity  is  a 
charm  which  dissolves  all  opposition.  The  mind  which 
shows  itself  open  to  influences  from  every  quarter,  and 
is  swayed  by  them,  is  not  its  own  master.  The  mind 
that  never  rests  is  invariably  full  of  freaks  and  caprices. 
The  mind  that  has  no  repose  shows  its  dependence  and 
its  lack  of  self-control.  There  cannot  go  out  of  such  a 
mind  as  this  a  positive  influence,  any  more  than  there 
can  go  forth  from  a  candle  a  steady  light,  when  it 
stands  flickering  and  flaring  in  the  wind,  having  all  it 
can  do  to  keep  its  flame  from  extinction.  There  must 
be  that  repose  of  mind  which  springs  from  conscious 
self-control  and  consciousness  of  the  power  of  self-con- 
trol, under  all  ordinary  circumstances,  before  a  man 
can  hope  to  have  influence  of  a  powerful  character 
upon  the  minds  about  him.  The  driver  of  a  coach-and- 
six,  with  all  the  ribbons  in  his  hands,  and  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  his  horses  and  his  road,  sits  upon  his  box 
in  repose ;  and  that  repose  inspires  me  with  confidence 
in  him ;  but  if  he  should  be  constantly  on  the  look-out 
for  some  trick,  and  constantly  examining  his  harnesses, 
and  constantly  fussy  and  uneasy,  I  should  lose  my  con- 
fidence in  him,  and  wish  I  were  hi  anybody's  care 
but  his. 

We  do  not  need  to  be  taught  that  a  restless  mind 
is  not  a  reliable  mind.     There  is  an  instinct  which  tells 


184 


Leffons  in  Life. 


us  this.  There  can  be  no  reliableness  of  character 
without  repose.  If  I  should  wish  to  take  a  ride,  and 
two  horses  should  be  led  before  me  to  choose  from,  I 
would  take  the  one  that  stands  still,  waiting  for  his  bur- 
den and  his  command,  rather  than  the  one  that  occu- 
pies the  road  and  his  groom  with  his  caracoling  and 
curveting  and  other  signs  of  restlessness.  I  should  be 
measurably  sure  that  one  would  bear  me  through  my 
journey  safely  and  speedily,  and  that  the  other  would 
either  throw  me,  or  wear  himself  out,  and  so  fail  of 
giving  me  good  service.  Saint  Peter  was  a  restless 
man — an  impatient  man.  He  was  always  the  most  im- 
pulsive, and  the  most  ready  to  act,  as  the  servant  of 
the  high  priest  had  occasion  to  remember ;  but  he  both 
lied  and  denied  his  Lord.  It  was  John  reposing  upon 
the  breast  of  Jesus,  who  most  drew  forth  the  Lord's 
affection.  Martha,  worrying  about  the  house,  cum- 
bered with  much  serving,  chose  a  part  inferior  to  that 
of  Mary  who  reposed  at  the  feet  of  Jesus.  It  is  only 
in  repose  that  the  powers  of  the  mind  are  marshalled 
for  great  enterprises  and  for  progress.  It  is  in  repose, 
when  passion  is  sleeping  and  reason  is  clear-eyed,  that 
the  military  chieftain  marks  out  his  campaign  and  ar- 
ranges his  forces.  He  is  a  poor  commander  who 
throws  his  troops  into  the  field,  and  fights  without  or- 
der, or  struggles  for  no  definite  end ;  and  there  are 
multitudes  of  men  who  throw  themselves  into  life  with 


Repofe.  185 

an  immense  splutter,  and  fight  the  fight  of  life  with  a 
great  deal  of  noise,  but  who  never  make  any  progress, 
because  they  have  never  drawn  upon  repose  for  a  plan. 
Repose  is  the  cradle  of  power.  It  is  the  fashion  to 
say  that  great  men  are  men  of  great  passions,  as  if 
their  passions  were  the  cause  rather  than  the  concomi- 
tant of  their  greatness.  Great  elephants  have  great 
legs,  but  the  legs  do  not  make  the  elephants  great. 
Great  legs,  however,  are  required  to  move  great  ele- 
phants, and  wherever  we  find  great  elephants,  we  find 
great  legs.  Small  men  sometimes  have  great  passions, 
and  these  passions  may  so  far  overcome  them  that  they 
shall  be  the  weakest  of  the  weak.  The  possession  of 
great  passions  is  often  a  disadvantage  to  weak  men 
and  strong  men  alike,  because  they  furnish  so  many 
assailable  points  for  outside  forces.  A  fortress  may  be 
very  strongly  built,  but  if  its  doors  are  open,  and 
scaling  ladders  are  run  permanently  down  from  its 
walls  for  the  accommodation  of  invading  forces,  its 
strength  will  be  of  very  little  practical  advantage. 
Great  passions  are  oftener  the  weak,  than  the  strong 
points  of  great  men.  Now  I  do  not  believe  it  possible 
for  a  man  to  exercise  a  high  degree  of  power  upon  the 
hearts  and  minds  of  others,  and,  at  the  same  time,  be 
under  the  influence  of  any  variety  of  passion.  A  man 
cannot  be  the  shivering  subject  of  an  outside  force,  act- 
ing upon  him  through  his  passions,  and  at  the  same 


186  Leflbns  in  Lite. 

time  a  centre  of  effluent  power.  Action  and  passion 
are  opposed  to  each  other ;  and  when  one  has  posses- 
sion of  the  soul  the  other  is  wanting.  They  involve 
two  distinct  attitudes  of  the  mind,  as  truly  as  do 
thanksgiving  and  petition. 

The  world  often  finds  fault  with  great  men  be- 
cause they  are  cold ;  but  they  could  not  be  great  men 
if  they  were  not  cold.  A  physician  is  often  preferred 
by  a  family  or  patient  because  he  is  "  so  sympathizing," 
as  they  call  it.  They  forget  that  a  physician  is  neces- 
sarily untrustworthy  in  the  degree  that  he  is  sympa- 
thetic with  his  patients.  A  physician  may  be  thoroughly 
kind,  and  out  of  his  kindness  there  may  grow  a  gentle 
manner  which  seems  to  spring  from  sympathy ;  but  I 
say  unhesitatingly  that  in  the  degree  by  which  a  phy- 
sician is'  sympathetic  with  his  patients,  is  he  unfitted 
for  his  work.  A  dentist  who  feels,  in  sympathy,  the 
pain  that  he  inflicts  upon  a  child,  is  unfitted  to  perform 
his  operation.  The  surgeon  who  sensitively  sympa- 
thizes with  a  man  whose  diseased  or  crushed  limb  it 
has  fallen  to  his  lot  to  remove,  has  lost  a  portion  of  his 
power  and  skill,  and  has  become  a  poorer  surgeon  for 
his  sympathy.  Physicians  themselves  show  that  they 
understood  this  when  a  case  for  medical  or  surgical 
treatment  occurs  in  their  own  families.  If  their  wives 
or  their  children  are  sick,  they  cannot  control  their 
sympathies ;  and  the  moment  they  are  aware  of  this, 


Repole.  187 

they  lose  all  confidence  in  themselves.  They  cannot 
reduce  the  fracture  of  a  child's  limb,  or  prescribe  for  a 
wife  lying  dangerously  ill,  because  their  sympathies  are 
so  greatly  excited  that  their  judgment  is  good  for  noth- 
ing. In  other  words,  they  are  in  an  attitude  or  condi- 
tion of  passion — they  are  moved  and  wrought  upon  by 
outside  forces,  to  such  a  degree  that  they  cannot  act. 

If  an  orator  rise  in  his  place,  and  show  by  the  agita- 
tion of  his  nerves,  his  broken  sentences,  and  his  choked 
utterances,  that  emotion  is  uppermost  in  him,  he  has 
no  more  power  upon  his  audience  than  a  baby.  "We 
pity  his  weakness,  or  we  sympathize  with  him ;  but  he 
cannot  move  us.  He  is  a  mastered  man,  and  until  he 
can  choke  down  his  passion  he  cannot  master  us.  A 
man  rises  in  an  audience  in  a  state  of  furious  excite- 
ment, and  fumes,  and  yells,  and  gesticulates,  but  he 
only  moves  us  to  pity,  or  disgust,  or  laughter.  His 
passion  utterly  deprives  him  of  power.  "We  call  Mr. 
Gough  an  actor,  as  he  undoubtedly  is ;  and  we  pretend 
to  be  disgusted  with  him  for  simulating  every  night, 
for  a  hundred  nights  in  succession,  the  emotions  which 
move  us.  We  forget  that  if  Mr.  Gough  should  really 
become  the  subject  of  the  passions  which  he  illustrates, 
he  would  lose  his  power  upon  us,  and  kill  himself  be- 
sides. He  takes  care  never  to  be  mastered,  and  takes 
care  also  that  all  the  machinery  which  he  uses  shall 
contribute  to  his  mastery  of  us.  I  do  not  denv  that 


188  Leffons  in  Life. 

passion  may  be  made  tributary  to  the  power  of  men. 
Oil  is  tributary  to  the  power  of  machinery  by  lubricat- 
ing its  points  of  friction  ;  and  warmth,  by  bringing  its 
members  into  more  perfect  adjustment;  but  if  the 
machinery  were  made  to  wade  in  oil,  or  were  heated 
red  hot,  oil  and  heat  would  be  a  damage  to  it. 

I  repeat  the  proposition,  then,  that  repose  is  the 
cradle  of  power.  The  man  who  cannot  hold  his  pas- 
sions in  repose — in  perfect  repose — can  never  employ 
the  measure  of  his  power.  These  "  cold  men,"  as  the 
world  calls  them,  are  the  men  who  move  and  control 
their  race.  But  it  is  not  necessary  to  cling  to  great 
men  for  the  illustration  of  my  subject.  To  say  that  a 
Christian  philanthropist  should  not  be  a  sympathetic 
man  would  be  to  say  that  he  should  not  be  a  man  at 
all ;  but  nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  if  a  man 
should  surrender  himself  to  his  sympathies  it  would  kill 
him.  In  a  world  where  sin  and  its  bitter  fruits  abound 
as  they  do  in  this,  where  little  children  cry  for  bread, 
and  whole  races  are  sunk  in  barbarism,  and  villainy 
preys  upon  virtue,  and  the  innocent  suffer  in  the  place 
of  the  guilty,  and  sickness  lays  its  hand  upon  multi- 
tudes, and  pain  holds  its  victims  to  a  life-long  bondage, 
and  death  leads  throngs  daily  to  the  grave,  and  leaves 
other  throngs  wild  with  grief,  a  sensitively  sympathetic 
man,  surrendering  himself  to  all  the  influences  that  ad- 
dress him,  would  lose  all  power  to  help  the  distressed, 


Repofe.  189 

or  even  to  speak  a  word  of  comfort.  We  are  to  ap- 
prehend the  woes  of  others  through  our  sympathies, 
and  to  hold  those  sympathies  in  such  repose  that  all 
the  power  of  our  natures  will  be  held  ready  for,  and 
subject  to,  intelligent  ministry.  The  woman  who 
faints  at  the  sight  of  blood  is  not  fit  for  a  hospital. 
The  man  who  grows  pale  at  hearing  a  groan,  will  not 
do  for  a  surgeon.  If  we  mean  to  do  any  thing  hi  this 
world  for  the  good  of  men,  we  must  first  compel  our 
sympathies  and  our  passions  into  repose. 

That  which  is  true  of  power  in  this  matter  is  true 
of  judgment.  It  is  a  widely  bruited  aphorism  that  "  all 
history  is  a  lie,"  and  this  aphorism  had  its  birth  in  the 
fact  that  historians  become,  as  it  were,  magnetized  by 
the  characters  with  which  they  deal.  A  man  who 
writes  the  life  of  Napoleon  finds  himself  either  sympa- 
thizing with  him,  or  roused  into  antipathy  by  him.  In 
short,  he  becomes  the  subject  of  a  passion,  wrought 
upon  him  by  the  character  which  he  contemplates  and 
undertakes  to  paint ;  and  from  the  moment  this  pas- 
sion takes  possession  of  him,  he  becomes  unfitted  to 
write  an  impartial  and  reliable  word  about  him.  All 
positive  historical  characters  have  all  possible  historical 
portraits,  simply  because  the  writers  are  subjects  of 
passion.  It  is  because  no  man  can  write  of  positive 
characters  without  being  the  subject  of  an  influence 
from  them,  that  no  man  can  be  an  impartial  historian, 


190  Leffons  in  Life. 

and  that  all  history  must  necessarily  be  a  lie.  If  ever 
a  perfect  history  shall  be  written,  it  will  be  written  by 
one  whose  passions  are  under  entire  control,  and  kept 
in  a  condition  of  profound  repose — who  will  look  at  a 
historical  character  as  he  would  upon  an  impaled  bee- 
tle in  an  entomological  collection.  A  man  is  no  com- 
petent judge  of  a  character,  either  in  history  or  in  life, 
with  which  he  strongly  sympathizes.  I  have  known 
many  a  man  utterly  unfitted  to  read  the  proofs  of  the 
villainy  of  one  to  whom  he  had  surrendered  his  sym- 
pathies. A  woman  in  love  is  a  very  poor  judge  of 
character.  She  can  see  nothing  but  excellence  where 
others  see  nothing  but  shallowness  and  rottenness. 

Once  more,  there  is  no  dignity  without  repose.  A 
restless,  uneasy  man,  can  never  be  a  dignified  man. 
There  can  be  no  dignity  about  a  man  or  a  woman  who 
fumes,  and  frets,  and  fusses,  and  is  full  of  freaks  and 
caprices.  Dignity  of  manners  is  always  associated  with 
repose.  Mrs.  Flutter  Budget  always  enters  a  drawing- 
room  as  if  she  were  a  loaded  doll,  tossed  in  by  the 
usher,  and  goes  dodging  and  tipping  about  to  get  her 
centre  of  gravity,  without  getting  it.  Her  queenly 
neighbor  comes  in  as  the  sun  rises — calmly,  sweetly, 
steadily,  and  all  hearts  bow  to  her  dignified  coming. 
What  would  an  Archbishop  be  worth  for  dignity,  who 
should  be  continually  scratching  his  ears,  and  brushing 
his  nose,  and  crossing  and  re-crossing  his  legs,  and 


Repofe.  191 

drumming  with,  his  fingers?  Who  would  not  deem 
the  ermine  degraded  by  a  chief  justice  who  should  be 
constantly  twitching  about  upon  his  bench  ?  It  is  a 
fact  that  has  come  under  the  observation  of  the  least 
observant,  that  the  moment  a  man  surrenders  himself 
to  his  passions  he  loses  his  dignity.  A  fit  of  anger  is  as 
fatal  to  dignity  as  a  dose  of  arsenic  to  life.  A  fit  of 
mirthfulness  is  hardly  less  fatal.  So  it  is  in  repose,  and 
particularly  in  the  repose  of  the  passions,  that  we  find 
the  happiness,  the  influence,  the  power,  and  the  dignity 
of  our  life.  Let  us  cultivate  repose. 


LESSON  XIV. 

THE    WAYS    OF    CHARITY. 


"The  Holy  Supper  is  kept  indeed. 
In  whatso  we  share  with  another's  need ; 
Not  that  which  we  give,  but  what  we  share, 
For  the  gift  without  the  giver  i$  bare : 
"Who  bestows  himself,  with  his  alms  feeds  three, — 
Himself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and  me." 

LOWELL. 

"  It  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield 
The  sickle  in  the  ripened  field ; 
Nor  ours  to  hear  on  summer  eves, 
The  reaper's  song  among  the  sheaves ; 
Yet,  when  our  duty's  task  is  wrought, 
In  unison  with  God's  great  thought, 
The  near  and  future  blend  in  one, 
And  whatsoe'er  is  willed  is  done." 

WmTTIEE. 

I  HAVE  come  to  entertain  very  serious  doubts 
about  my  "  orthodoxy "  on  the  subject  of  doing 
good.  If  I  know  my  own  motives,  I  certainly  have  a 
desire  to  do  good ;  but  this  desire  is  yoke  fellow  with 
the  perverse  wish  to  do  it  in  my  own  way.  I  do  not 
feel  myself  inclined  to  accept  the  prescriptions  of  those 


The  Ways  of  Charity.  193 

who  have  taken  out  patents  for  various  ingenious  pro- 
cesses in  this  line  of  effort.  My  attention  has  just  been 
attracted  to  this  subject,  by  the  perusal  of  a  long  story, 
which  must  be  not  far  from  the  one  hundred  and  nine- 
ty-ninth that  I  have  read-  during  the  past  twenty  years, 
all  tipped  with  the  same  general  moral.  A  good- 
natured  lady,  in  easy  circumstances,  and  of  benevolent 
impulses,  is  appealed  to  by  a  poor  man  in  the  kitchen. 
She  feeds  him,  gives  him  clothes,  sends  him  away  re- 
joicing, and  feels  good  over  it.  The  man  comes  again 
and  again,  tells  pitiful  stories,  excites  her  benevolence 
of  course,  and  secures  a  reasonable  amount  of  addi- 
tional plunder.  Months  pass  away;  and  being  out 
upon  a  walk  one  pleasant  afternoon,  and  finding  herself 
near  the  poor  man's  residence,  the  fair  benefactress 
calls  upon  him.  She  finds  the  wife  (who  was  reported 
dead)  very  comfortable  indeed,  and  the  destitute  fam- 
ily of  four  children  reduced  to  a  single  fat  and  saucy 
baby,  and  the  poor  liar  himself  smelling  strongly  of 
rum.  Then  come  the  denouement,  and  a  grand  tableau: 
lady  very  much  grieved  and  astonished — wife,  who  has 
known  nothing  of  her  husband's  tricks,  exceedingly  be- 
wildered— fuddled  husband,  blind  with  rum  and  re- 
morse, owns  up  to  his  meanness  and  duplicity.  He 
found  (as  he  confessed)  that  he  could  work  upon  the 
lady's  sympathies,  got  to  lying  and  couldn't  stop,  and, 
finally,  felt  so  badly  over  the  whole  operation,  that  he 
n 


194  Leffons  in  Life. 

took  to  drink  to  drown  his  conscience!  Moral:  Wo- 
men should  not  help  poor  people  without  going  to  see 
them,  and  finding  out  whether  they  lie. 

Now  that  woman  did  exactly  as  I  should  have  done, 
under  the  same  circumstances.  In  the  first  place,  I 
should  never  have  had  the  heart  to  doubt  a  man  who 
carried  an  honest  face,  and  was  cold,  hungry,  and  ragged. 
I  should  have  regarded  his  condition  as  a  claim  upon 
my  charity.  In  the  second  place,  I  should  have  had  no 
time  to  call  upon  his  family,  and  satisfy  myself  with  re- 
gard to  their  circumstances ;  and  in  the  third  place,  I 
should  have  felt  very  delicate  about  putting  direct 
questions  to  them  if  I  had.  The  same  story  tells  inci- 
dentally of  one  of  these  men  who  do  good  in  the 
proper  way.  He  visited  a  house  which  presented  all  the 
signs  of  poverty ;  but  the  angel  of  mercy  was  too  'cute 
to  be  taken  in ;  so  he  walked  up  stairs.  Every  thing 
presenting  there  the  same  aspect  of  abject  poverty 
that  prevailed  below,  the  angel  of  mercy  looked  around 
him,  and  discovered  a  ladder  leading  to  the  garret. 
The  angel  of  mercy  "  smelt  a  rat,"  and  mounted  the 
ladder.  In  the  garret  he  found  half  a  cord  of  wood, 
and  any  quantity  of  goodies  for  the  table.  Another 
denouement  and  tableau.  Moral :  as  before.  If  the 
story  has  taught  me  any  thing,  it  is  that  it  is  my  duty 
to  question  every  beggar  that  comes  to  my  door,  visit 
his  house,  explorp  it  from  cellar  to  garret,  and  satisfy 


The  Ways  of  Charity.  195 

myself  of  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  his  representations. 
Otherwise,  my  charity  goes  for  nothing,  and  I  do  my 
beo-far  an  absolute  unkindness.  In  other  words,  while 

OO 

the  law  holds  every  man  innocent  until  he  is  proved  to 
be  guilty,  charity  holds  every  man  guilty  until  he  is 
proved  to  be  innocent. 

It  has  become  the  fashion  in  certain  circles  to  decry 
that  benevolence  which  sits  at  home  in  slippers,  and 
gives  its  money  without  seeing  where  it  goes ;  but  it 
is  forgotten  that  the  money  dispensed  in  slippers  was 
earned  in  boots,  and  that  the  man  who  has  money  to 
give,  has  usually  so  much  business  on  hand  that  he  can 
make  no  adequate  personal  examination  of  the  cases 
which  are  referred  to  his  charity.  I  can  never  forget 
Mr.  Dickens'  Cheeryble  Brothers,  who  were  so  very 
much  obliged  to  a  friend  for  calling  upon  them,  and 
telling  them  of  the  circumstances  of  a  poor  family.  It 
was  taken  as  a  great  personal  kindness  when  they  were 
informed  how  and  where  they  could  relieve  want  and 
distress.  They  had  no  genius  for  going  about  and 
looking  up  cases  of  charity,  but  their  hearts  leaped  at 
the  opportunity  to  do  good.  They  did  their  work  in 
their  counting-room,  and  had  no  time  and  no  talent  for 
visiting  those  whom  they  benefited ;  but  who  would 
question  either  the  genuineness  or  the  judiciousness  of 
their  benevolence  ?  The  applications  for  aid  made  at 
the  doors  of  our  dwellings  come  oflener  to  the  mis- 


196  Leffons  in  Life. 

tresses  of  those  dwellings  than  to  the  masters ;  and 
these  mistresses,  four  times  in  five,  are  women  with 
the  care  of  children  on  their  hands,  or  household  duties 
which  demand  almost  constant  attention.  If  a  beggar 
come  to  the  door,  they  are  grateful  for  the  opportu- 
nity to  afford  relief;  but  they  have  no  time  to  visit 
another  quarter  of  the  town,  to  learn  whether  their 
charities  have  been  well  bestowed,  nor  do  they  with- 
hold their  charities  through  fear  of  being  imposed 
upon. 

In  my  judgment,  the  character  and  circumstances 
of  a  man  determine  his  office  in  the  work  of  charitable 
relief.  I  know  there  are  some  persons  who  have  a  pe- 
culiar natural  adaptation  to  the  work  of  visiting  the 
subjects  of  sickness  and  of  need.  Their  presence  and 
their  sympathy  are  grateful  to  those  to  whom  they  de- 
light to  minister.  They  are  masters  and  mistresses  of 
all  those  thrifty  economies  which  enable  them  to  man- 
age for  the  poor.  They  have  genuine  administrative 
talent  in  this  particular  department.  They  are  cheer- 
ful and  active,  and  sympathetic  and  ingenious;  and 
they  can  do  more  for  a  poor,  discouraged  family  with 
ten  dollars  than  others  can  do  with  fifty.  I  do  not 
suppose  that  these  people  are  one  whit  more  benevo- 
lent than  those  whose  purses  are  always  open  to  the 
poor,  and  who  at  the  same  time  would  feel  very  awk- 
ward upon  a  visit  of  charity,  and  would  make  the  fam- 


The  Ways  of  Charity.  197 

ily  visited  feel  as  awkward  as  themselves.  The  poor 
we  have  always  with  us ;  and  every  man  and  woman 
who  possesses  means  foi\  their  relief  owes  a  duty  to 
them  which  is  to  be  discharged  in  the  most  efficient 
way.  If  I  have  money,  and  do  not  feel  that  I  am  the 
proper  person  to  look  after  the  details  of  its  dispensa- 
tion, I  will  put  it  into  the  hands  of  one  more  compe- 
tent to  the  business,  and  I  will  rationally  conclude  that 
I  have  done  my  duty.  In  the  mean  time,  if  a  man  come 
to  my  door,  and  ask  for  the  supply  of  his  immediate 
necessities,  he  shall  not  be  turned  empty  away  because 
I  do  not  happen  to  have  the  means  at  hand  for  verify- 
ing his  story. 

I  know  that  there  are  multitudes  of  tender-hearted 
women — women  of  abounding  benevolence  and  sensi- 
tive conscience — who  are  troubled  upon  this  subject. 
They  have  a  desire  to  do  good,  and  to  do  it  in  the 
right  way;  but,  somehow,  they  find  it  impossible  to 
do  it  according  to  the  views  of  the  story-writers. 
They  are  any  thing  but  rugged  in  health,  perhaps,  or 
they  have  a  dependent  family  of  young  children 
around  them,  or  the  care  of  their  dwellings  absorbs 
their  time.  They  fail  to  find  the  opportunity  to  visit 
the  poor,  or  they  do  not  feel  themselves  adapted  to 
the  office ;  and  still  they  carry  about  with  them  the 
uncomfortable  suspicion  that  they  are  meanly  shrinking 
from  duty.  My  thought  upon  this  point  is  that  my 


198  Leffons  in  Life. 

duties  never  conflict  with  one  another,  and  that  if  I 
can  do  good  in  one  way  better  than  another,  then  that 
is  ray  way  to  do  good.  I  shall  not  permit  the  story- 
writers  to  prescribe  for  me,  nor  shall  I  allow  them  to 
make  me  uncomfortable. 

There  is  a  class  of  men  and  women  in  all  Protes- 
tant communities  who  think  it  a  very  neat  thing  to  do 
good  at  random.  They  sow  broadcast  of  cheap  seed, 
content  to  reap  nothing  at  all,  and  pleasantly  disap- 
pointed if  they  find  here  and  there  a  stalk  of  corn  to 
reward  their  sowing.  They  do  not  prepare  their 
ground,  they  do  not  cultivate  it  at  all,  but  they  sow, 
hoping  that  in  some  open  place  a  seed  may  fall  and 
germinate.  Some  of  these  people  regard  this  method 
of  doing  good  as  a  kind  of  holy  stratagem — a  Christian 
trick — which  takes  the  devil  at  a  disadvantage.  I  once 
knew  a  kind  old  gentleman  who  did  a  business  that 
brought  him  considerably  into  contact  with  rough  and 
profane  persons ;  and  as  he  wished  to  do  something  for 
them,  he  kept  his  pockets  filled  with  little  printed  cards 
entitled  "  The  Swearer's  Prayer ; "  and  whenever  an 
oath  came  out,  the  utterer  was  immediately  presented 
with  this  card  with  a  little  story  on  it,  and  a  statement 
that  "  to  swear  is  neither  brave,  polite,  nor  wise."  I 
very  well  remember  hearing  the  old  gentleman  say  that, 
though  he  had  given  away  hundreds  of  these  cards, 
he  had  never  learned  that  one  of  them  had  done 


The  Ways  of  Charity.  199 

any  good.  I  do  not  wonder  at  it.  It  was  a  sneaking 
way  of  doing  good,  or  of  trying  to.  If  the  old  man  had 
remonstrated  personally  with  these  swearing  fellows, 
and  told  them  that  their  habit  was  both  vulgar  and 
wicked,  does  any  one  suppose  that  the  result  would 
have  been  so  unsatisfactory  ?  He  had  not  pluck  enough 
to  do  this ;  so  he  gave  them  a  card,  and  they  either 
threw  it  in  his  face  or  threw  it  away.  But  then,  the 
cards  didn't  cost  much  ! 

I  have  been  much  interested  in  watching  a  car-load 
of  passengers,  while  receiving  each  from  the  hands  of  a 
professional  distributor  a  religious  tract.  All  have  re- 
ceived the  gift  politely,  in  deference  to  the  motive 
which  prompted,  or  was  supposed  to  prompt,  its  be- 
stowal ;  yet  I  have  never  failed  to  perceive  that  polite- 
ness was  really  taxed  in  the  matter.  Now  let  me  be 
candid,  and  confess  that  I  was  never  pleasantly  im- 
pressed by  being  presented  with  a  tract  in  a  railroad 
car.  This  fact  cannot  be  attributed  to  any  lack  of  dis- 
position to  contemplate  religious  subjects ;  but  there  is 
something  which  tells  me  that  it  is  improper  and  in- 
delicate for  any  man  to  come  into  a  public  vehicle,  and 
thrust  upon  me  and  upon  my  fellow-passengers  a  set  of 
motives  and  opinions  on  religion  which  may  or  may 
not  accord  with  my  own  and  theirs — just  as  it  happens. 
I  think  the  natural  action  of  the  mind  is  to  brace  itself 
against  influences  sought  to  be  sprung  upon  it  in  this 


200  Leffons  in  Life. 

manner  ;  and  I  am  yet  to  be  convinced  that  this  indis- 
criminate and  wholesale  distribution  of  religious  tracts 
in  railroad  stations  and  public  conveyances  is  not  doing, 
and  has  not  done,  more  harm  than  good.  I  know  that 
multitudes  of  men — not  vicious — are  disgusted  with  it, 
and  offended  by  it,  and  that  there  is  something — call 
it  what  you  may — in  the  emotions  excited  by  the  pre- 
sentation of  a  tract  under  such  ill-chosen  circumstances, 
which  counteracts  any  good  influence  it  was  intended 
to  produce.  A  gentleman  will  receive  a  tract  politely, 
and  read  it  or  not  according  to  his  whim  ;  but  it  will 
be  very  apt  to  disgust  him  with  the  style  of  Christian- 
ity which  it  represents. 

I  am  aware  that  the  secretary  and  the  agents  of 
the  tract  societies  make  very  encouraging  reports  of 
the  results  of  their  operations.  I  am  always  interested 
in  these  details,  and  do  not  discredit  at  all  the  state- 
ments which  they  make.  Nay,  I  am  convinced  that  in 
certain  departments  of  their  effort  they  are  successful 
in  doing  much  good.  I  believe  that  their  noble  army 
of  colporteurs,  going  from  lonely  neighborhood  to 
neighborhood,  and  carrying  with  them  an  unselfish, 
devoted  life,  and  the  living  voice  of  prayer,  exhorta- 
tion, and  counsel,  win  many  souls  to  Christian  virtue. 
I  am  willing  to  acknowledge,  further,  that  here  and 
there  a  tract,  chance-sown,  may  fall  into  ground  ready 
to  receive  it ;  but  I  have  a  right  to  question  whether 


The  Ways  of  Charity.  201 

the  same  outlay  of  effort  and  money,  applied  directly 
in  other  fields,  would  not  bring  very  much  larger  re- 
turns. My  point  is  that  in  all  efforts  to  do  good,  in 
this  way,  appropriateness  of  time  and  place  is  always 
to  be  consulted.  I  once  took  my  seat  in  a  dentist's 
chair  to  have  an  operation  performed  upon  my  teeth. 
If  I  remember  correctly,  an  ugly  fang  was  to  be  re- 
moved,— at  any  rate,  pain  was  involved  in  the  matter ; 
but  no  sooner  was  the  dentist's  arm  around  my  head, 
and  his  instrument  in  my  mouth,  than  the  well-meaning 
and  zealous  operator  began  to  question  me  upon  the 
subject  of  personal  religion.  Now  it  seemed  quite  as 
bad  to  undertake  to  propagate  Christianity  at  the  point 
of  a  surgical  instrument,  as  it  would  be  to  win  prose- 
lytes by  the  sword ;  and  the  utter  incongruity  of  the 
two  operations  disgusted  me.  At  any  rate,  I  changed 
my  dentist.  I  felt  like  the  man  who  found  upon  his 
landlady's  table  an  article  of  'butter  that  was  incon- 
veniently encumbered  with  hair,  and  who  informed  her 
that  he  had  no  objection  to  hair,  but  would  prefer  to 
have  it  served  upon  a  separate  dish. 

A  good  many  years  ago,  I  read  a  Sunday-school 
book  entitled,  if  I  remember  correctly,  "Walks  of 
Usefulness."  It  represented  a  man  going  out  into  the 
street,  and  "  pitching  into  "  every  person  he  met  with, 
upon  the  subject  of  religion,  or  starting  a  conversation 
and  immediately  giving  it  a  spiritual  twist.  I  thought 


202  Leflbns  in  Life. 

then  that  he  was  a  remarkably  ingenious  man — a  won- 
derful story-teller,  to  say  the  least  of  him.  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  now  that  he  romanced  a  little.  Every 
operation  was  so  neatly  done,  and  turned  out  so  well, 
that  I  really  suspect  it  was  pure  fiction.  I  have  this  to 
say,  at  any  rate,  that  if  he  did  and  said  what  he  pro- 
fessed to  have  done  and  said,  under  the  circumstances 
which  he  described,  he  owed  it  to  the  politeness  of 
those  whom  he  addressed  that  he  was  not  dismissed 
with  a  decided  rebuff,  and  told  to  go  about  his  business. 
"  A  word  fitly  spoken,  how  good  it  is !  "  Ah  yes!  how 
very  good  it  is !  Christian  zeal  is  no  excuse  for  bad 
taste,  nor  is  Christian  effort  exempt  from  the  laws  of 
fitness  and  propriety  which  attach  to  human  effort  of 
other  aims  in  other  fields.  If  I  wish  to  reach  a  man's 
mind  upon  any  important  subject,  and  circumstances 
do  not  favor  me,  I  wait  for  circumstances  to  change,  or 
I  pave  my  way  to  his  mind  by  a  series  of  carefully- 
adjusted  efforts.  Abrupt  transitions  of  thought  and 
feeling,  and  violent  interruptions  of  the  currents  of 
mental  life  and  action,  are  never  favorable  to  reflection. 
If  I  wish  to  cheer  a  man  who  is  bowed  to  the  earth  in 
grief  for  the  loss  of  a  companion,  I  will  not  break  in 
upon  his  mourning  with  a  lively  tune  upon  a  fiddle. 
If  I  wish  to  attract  him  to  a  religious  life,  I  will  not  in- 
terrupt the  flow  of  his  innocently  social  hours  by  some 
terrible  threat  or  warning.  In  truth,  I  know  of  nothing 


The  Ways  of  Charity.  203 

that  calls  for  more  care,  or  nicer  discrimination,  or 
choicer  address,  than  a  personal  attempt  to  move  an 
irreligious  mind  in  a  religious  direction.  The  word  of 
gold  should  always  have  a  setting  of  silver. 

There  seems  to  be  a  prevalent  disposition  in  the 
religious  world  to  do  good  by  indirection  and  strata- 
gem. If  a  man  can  reach  one  mind  by  scattering  ten 
thousand  tracts,  the  result  is  more  grateful  than  it 
would  be  if  that  mind  were  reached  by  direct  personal 
effort  without  any  tracts ;  and  it  makes  a  larger  and 
more  interesting  show  in  the  reports.  This  disposition 
is  manifest  in  the  matter  of  charitable  fairs.  The  wo- 
men of  a  religious  society  will  make  up  a  batch  of 
little-or-nothings,  freeze  a  few  cans  of  ice  cream,  hire  a 
hall,  and  advertise  a  sale.  "We  all  go,  and  buy  things 
that  we  do  not  want,  with  a  good-natured  and  gallant 
disregard  of  prices,  and  the  footings  of  receipts  are 
published  in  the  newspapers.  The  charitable  women 
feel  pleasantly  about  it,  and  think  that  they  have  done 
a  great  deal  of  good  at  a  small  cost,  without  remem- 
bering that  all  the  money  they  have  made  has  cost 
somebody  the  amount  of  the  declared  figures.  It  seems 
to  be  a  great  deal  pleasanter  to  get  possession  of  the 
money  in  this  way,  than  it  would  be  to  obtain  it  by  a 
general  subscription.  They  forget  that  all  they  have 
done  is  to  obtain  a  subscription  by  a  graceful  and  at- 
tractive stratagem,  and  that  the  motives  which  they 


204  Leffons  in  Life. 

have  pocketed  with  the  money  would  not  stand  the 
test  of  a  scrupulous  analysis.  The  main  point  seems  to 
be  to  get  the  money,  and  do  the  good  with  the  least 
possible  sense  of  sacrifice  ;  as  a  man  goes  to  a  charitable 
ball,  and  pays  two  dollars  for  the  privilege  of  dancing 
all  night,  in  order  to  give  a  shilling  of  profits  to  the 
widow  and  fatherless  without  feeling  the  burden  of  the 
charity. 

Of  all  the  means  of  doing  good,  I  know  of  none  so 
repulsive  as  that  which  is  purely  professional.  I  think 
we  do  not  have  so  much  of  this  in  these  days  as  our 
fathers  had.  Our  pastors  are  more  thoroughly  our 
companions  and  friends  than  they  used  to  be.  They 
do  not  assume  to  be  our  dictators  and  censors  as  they 
did  in  the  earlier  days  of  Puritanism.  The  idea  of  the 
regular  parochial  visit  is  essentially  changed.  But  I 
know  clergymen,  even  now,  who  visit  the  house  of 
mourning  professionally,  and  give  their  professional 
consolation  in  a  professional  way,  and  depart  feeling 
that  they  have  faithfully  performed  their  professional 
duty.  I  know  clergymen  who  go  round  from  house  to 
house  with  their  professional  inquiries,  and  do  up  any 
quantity  of  professional  work  in  a  day.  The  family 
come  in,  (those  who  do  not  run  away,)  and  take  seats 
around  the  room,  and  answer  questions,  and  listen  to  a 
prayer,  and  then  they  bid  their  pastor  a  good  afternoon 
with  a  sense  of  relief,  and  go  about  their  business  again, 


The  Ways  of  Charity.  205 

while  he  pushes  on  to  his  next  parishioner,  and  repeats 
the  professional  task.  It  is  all  a  dry  and  unfruitful 
formality  on  the  part  of  the  families  visited,  and  a  pro- 
fessionally-discharged duty  on  the  part  of  the  pastor, 
and  a  pitifully-ridiculous  caricature  of  the  visit  of  a 
religious  teacher  to  his  disciples  every  way.  What 
shall  be  said  of  an  interview  of  which  the  pastor's  part 
consisted  of  these  words :  "Very  late  spring — Hem ! " 
(looking  out  of  the  window) — "  who  is  building  that 
barn  ? — potatoes  seem  to  be  getting  along  very  well ; " 
(turning  to  a  member  of  the  family) — "  Jane,  how  do 
you  enjoy  your  mind  ?  "  A  spiritual  frame  that  could 
stand  such  a  transition  as  that,  without  taking  a  fatal 
cold,  must  be  based  upon  a  very  sound  constitution, 
and  toughened  by  frequent  repetition  of  the  process. 

I  suppose  there  will  always  be  obtuse  men  in  the 
pastoral  office — men  who  know  no  way  of  getting  into 
a  sensitive  soul  except  by  knocking  in  the  door  and 
walking  in  with  their  boots  on  ;  but  all  such  men  are 
out  of  their  place.  The  souls  of  an  average  people — 
tied  to  the  tasks  of  life,  burdened  by  care,  oppressed  by 
routine,  and  depressed  in  many  instances  by  bodily 
weakness — need  sympathy  more  than  counsel,  and  en- 
couragement and  inspiration  more  than  a  solemn,  pro- 
fessional catechetical  probing  of  their  religious  state. 
But  I  think,  as  I  have  already  said,  that  the  world  is 
improving  in  this  matter.  Our  pastors  are  more  social, 


206  Leffons  in  Life. 

more  facile,  more  appreciative  of  the  fact  that,  in  all 
their  personal  intercourse  with  their  people,  they  must 
win  love  and  give  sympathy  if  they  would  do  good  in 
the  line  of  their  profession. 

So  much  in  the  vein  of  criticism  ;  and  if  I  am  asked 
what  guide  a  man  shall  have  in  the  matter  of  doing 
good  in  the  world,  I  shall  answer :  a  loving,  honest, 
and  brave  heart,  and  a  mind  that  judges  for  itself. 
The  heart  that  loves  its  fellow-men  will  move  its  possessor 
to  do  good;  and  the  mind  that  thinks  and  judges  for 
itself  will  decide  in  what  direction  its  efforts  ought  to 
be  made.  If  a  man  be  moved  to  do  good,  he  will  do 
it,  and  his  heart  will  lead  him  in  the  right  direction. 
Under  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty,  inculcated  by  incom- 
petent counsellors,  men  find  themselves  in  fields  of  be- 
nevolent action  to  which  they  are  very  poorly  adapted; 
and  the  world  is  full  of  these  blunders ;  but  an  hon- 
estly-loving heart  and  an  ordinarily  clear  brain,  that 
nobody  has  been  allowed  to  meddle  with  and  muddle, 
will  tell  a  man  where  he  belongs  and  what  he  ought  to 
do.  If  a  man  have  a  gift  for  ministering  to  the  sick, 
let  him  do  it.  If  he  have  a  gift  for  dealing  personally 
with  the  poor,  let  him  do  that.  If  he  have  a  gift  for 
making  money,  and  none  for  properly  applying  his 
charities,  let  him  hand  his  money  to  those  who  are 
competent  to  dispense  it.  I  do  not  believe  that  many 
loving  hearts,  coupled  with  unsophisticated  judgments, 


The  Ways  of  Charity.  207 

are  engaged  in  indisci'iminate  and  random  efforts  to 
act  for  religious  ends  upon  the  minds  they  meet  with. 
I  believe  that  with  all  such  hearts  and  judgments  there 
is  connected  a  sense  of  that  which  is  fit  and  proper  in 
time,  place,  and  circumstance,  so  that  wherever  they 
strike  they  leave  their  mark.  I  believe  that  such 
hearts  and  judgments  will  scorn  to  do  that  by  indirec- 
tion which  they  can  do  better  directly,  and  that  if  it  be 
fit  and  proper  for  them  to  offer  reproof  to  a  man,  they 
will  do  it  by  the  brave  word  of  mouth,  and  not  sneak 
up  to  him  and  put  a  card  or  a  tract  into  his  hand.  I 
believe  that  men  with  such  hearts  and  judgments 
would  prefer  making  a  subscription  directly  to  a  chari- 
table object,  to  making  one  indirectly  by  paying  double 
price  for  articles  they  do  not  want.  And  last,  I  think 
that  pastors,  with  such  hearts  and  judgments,  are  not 
at  all  in  danger  of  becoming  coldly  professional  in  their 
noble  duties.  A  life  in  any  sphere  that  is  the  expres- 
sion and  outflow  of  an  honest,  earnest,  loving  heart, 
taking  counsel  only  of  God  and  itself,  will  be  certain  to 
be  a  life  of  beneficence  in  the  best  possible  direction. 


LESSON    XV. 

MEN     OP     ONE    IDEA. 

"  Cultivate  the  physical  exclusively,  and  you  have  an  athlete  or  a  savage  ; 
the  moral  only,  and  you  have  an  enthusiast  or  a  maniac;  the  intellectual  only, 
and  yon  have  a  diseased  oddity— it  may  be  a  monster.  It  is  only  by  wisely 
training  all  three  together  that  the  complete  man  can  be  formed." 

SAMUEL  SMILES. 

WHEN  the  heats  of  summer  have  dried  up  the 
streams,  and  cataracts  only  trickle  and  drip, 
and  the  dams  of  brooks  and  rivers  cease  to  pour  the 
arching  crystal  from  their  lips,  I  have  always  loved  to 
explore  the  forsaken  water-courses.  An  imprisoned 
fish,  a  shell  with  rainbow  lining,  a  curiously-worn  rock, 
a  strangely-tinted  and  grotesquely-fashioned  stone — 
these  are  always  objects  of  interest.  Then  to  sit  down 
upon  a  ledge  that  has  been  planed  off  by  ice,  and 
smoothed  by  the  tenuous  passage  of  an  ocean's  palpi- 
tating volume,  and  watch  the  shrunken  stream  slipping 
around  its  feet,  and  hear  the  gurgle  of  the  faintly-going 


Men  of  One  Idea.  209 

water,  and  grow  so  drowsy  with  the  song  that  it  breaks 
at  last  into  surprising  articulations,  and  talks  and 
laughs,  and  shouts  and  sings — ah !  this,  indeed,  is  en- 
chantment !  There  are  few  men,  I  suppose,  so  fortu- 
nate as  to  have  enjoyed  a  country  breeding,  who  do  not 
recall  scenes  like  this, — who  do  not  remember  a  half- 
holiday,  at  least,  spent  in  the  bed  of  a  summer  stream, 
and  at  the  feet  of  scanty  cataracts,  making  fierce  at- 
tacks on  water  snakes,  watching  lizards  lying  among 
the  stones  of  an  old  raceway,  creeping  up,  hat  in  hand, 
to  a  gauze-winged  devil's  needle  that  shivered  on  a 
sunny  point  of  rock,  and  looked  as  if  it  might  be  the 
ghost  of  a  humming-bird,  starting  to  mark  the  sudden 
flight  and  hear  the  chattering  cry  of  the  king-fisher  as 
he  darted  through  the  shadows  and  disappeared,  and 
noting  the  slim-legged  wagtail,  racing  backward  and 
forward  upon  the  border  of  the  stream. 

Among  the  objects  of  interest  very  often,  if  not  al- 
ways, to  be  found  at  the  feet  of  dams  and  cataracts, 
are  what  people  call  "pot-holes."  They  are  round 
holes  worn  in  the  solid  rock  by  a  single  stone,  kept  in 
motion  by  the  water.  Some  of  them  are  very  large 
and  others  are  small.  When  the  stream  becomes  dry, 
there  they  are,  smooth  as  if  turned  out  by  machinery, 
and  the  hard,  round  pebbles  at  the  bottom  by  which 
the  curious  work  was  done.  Every  year,  as  the  dry 
season  comes  along,  we  find  that  the  holes  have  grown 


210  Leffons  in  Life. 

larger  and  the  pebbles  smaller,  and  that  no  freshet  has 
been  found  powerful  enough  to  dislodge  the  pebbles 
and  release  the  rock  from  their  attrition.  Now  if  a 
man  will  turn  from  the  contemplation  of  one  of  these 
pot-holes,  and  the  means  by  which  it  is  made,  and  seek 
for  that  result  and  that  process  in  the  world  of  mind 
which  most  resemble  them,  I  am  sure  that  he  will  find 
them  in  a  man  of  one  idea.  In  truth,  these  scenes  that 
I  have  been  painting  wrere  all  recalled  to  me  by  looking 
upon  one  of  these  men,  studying  his  character,  and 
watching  the  effect  of  the  single  idea  by  which  he  was 
actuated.  "There,"  said  I,  involuntarily,  "is  a  moral 
pot-hole  with  a  pebble  in  it ;  and  the  hole  grows  larger 
and  the  pebble  smaller  every  year." 

I  suppose  it  is  useless  to  undertake  to  reform  men 
of  one  idea.  The  real  trouble  is  that  the  pebble  is  in 
them  ;  and  whole  freshets  of  truth  are  poured  upon 
them,  only  with  the  effect  to  make  it  more  lively  in  its 
grinding,  and  more  certain  in  its  process  of  wearing 
out  itself  and  them.  The  little  man  who,  when  ordered 
by  his  physician  to  take  a  quart  of  medicine,  informed 
him  with  a  deprecatory  whimper  that  he  did  not  hold 
but  a  pint,  illustrates  the  capacity  of  many  of  those  who 
are  subjects  of  a  single  idea.  They  do  not  hold  but  one, 
and  it  would  be  useless  to  prescribe  a  larger  number. 
In  a  country  like  ours,  in  which  every  thing  is  new  and 
everybody  is  free,  there  are  multitudes  of  self-consti- 


Men  of  One  Idea.  211 

tuted  doctors,  each  of  whom  has  a  nostrum  for  curing 
all  physical  and  moi'al  disorders  and  diseases, — a  patent 
process  by  which  humanity  may  achieve  its. proudest 
progress  and  its  everlasting  happiness.  The  country  is 
full  of  hobby-riders,  booted  and  spurred,  who  imagine 
they  are  leading  a  grand  race  to  a  golden  goal,  forget- 
ful of  the  truth  that  their  steeds  are  tethered  to  a 
single  idea,  around  which  they  .ire  revolving  only  to 
tread  down  the  grass  and  wind  themselves  up,  where 
they  may  stand  at  last  amid  the  world's  ridicule,  and 
starve  to  death. 

Man  cannot  live  by  bread  alone,  but  by  every  word 
that  proceeds  out  of  the  mouth  of  God,  whether 
spoken  through  nature  or  revelation.  There  is  no  one 
idea  in  all  God's  universe  so  great  and  so  nutritious 
that  it  can  furnish  food  for  an  immortal  soul.  Variety 
of  nutriment  is  absolutely  essential,  even  to  physical 
health.  There  are  so  many  elements  that  enter  into 
the  structure  of  the  human  body,  and  such  variety  of 
stimuli  requisite  for  the  play  of  its  vital  forces,  that  it 
is  necessary  to  lay  under  tribute  a  wide  range  of  na- 
ture ;  and  fruits  and  roots  and  grain,  beasts  of  the  field, 
fowls  of  the  air,  and  fish  of  the  sea,  juices  and  spices 
and  flavors,  all  bring  their  contributions  to  the  perfec- 
tion of  the  human  animal,  and  the  harmony  of  its  func- 
tions. The  sailor,  kept  too  long  upon  his  hard  biscuit 
and  salt  junk,  degenerates  into  scurvy.  The  occupant 


212  Leffons  in  Life. 

of  the  Irish  hovel  who  lives  upon  his  favorite  root,  and 
sees  neither  bread  nor  meat,  grows  up  with  weak  eyes, 
an  ugly  face,  and  a  stunted  body.  It  is  precisely  thus 
with  a  man  Avho  occupies  and  feeds  his  mind  with  a 
single  idea.  He  grows  mean  and  small  and  diseased 
with  the  diet.  The  soul  bears  relation  to  such  a  wealth 
of  truth,  such  a  multitude  of  interests  cluster  about  it, 
it  has  such  variety  of  elements — as  illustrated  by  its 
illimitable  range  of  action  and  passion — it  touches  and 
receives  impressions  from  all  other  souls  at  such  an  in- 
finite variety  of  points,  that  it  is  simply  absurd  to  sup- 
pose that  one  idea  can  feed  it,  even  for  a  day. 

A  mind  that  surrenders  itself  to  a  single  idea  be- 
comes essentially  insane.  I  know  a  man  who  has  dwelt 
so  long  upon  the  subject  of  a  vegetable  diet  that  it  has 
finally  taken  possession  of  him.  It  is  now  of  such  im- 
portance in  his  eyes  that  every  other  subject  is  thrown 
out  of  its  legitimate  relations  to  him.  It  is  the-constant 
theme  of  his  thought — the  study  of  his  life.  He  ques- 
tions the  properties  and  quantities  of  every  mouthful 
that  passes  his  lips,  and  watches  its  effects  upon  him. 
He  reads  upon  this  subject  every  thing  he  can  lay  his 
hands  on.  He  talks  upon  it  with  every  man  he  meets. 
He  has  ransacked  the  whole  Bible  for  support  to  his 
theories  ;  and  the  man  really  believes  that  the  eternal 
salvation  of  the  human  race  hinges  upon  a  change  of 
diet.  It  has  become  a  standard  by  which  to  decide  the 


Men  of  One  Idea. 


validity  of  all  other  truth.  If  he  did  not  believe  that 
the  Bible  was  on  his  side  of  the  question,  he  would  dis- 
card the  Bible.  Experiments  or  opinions  that  make 
against  his  faith  are  either  contemptuously  rejected  or 
ingeniously  explained  away.  Now  this  man's  mind  is 
not  only  reduced  to  the  size  of  his  idea,  and  assimilated 
to  its  character,  but  it  has  lost  its  soundness.  His  rea- 
son is  disordered.  His  judgment  is  perverted  —  de- 
praved. He  sees  things  in  unjust  and  illegitimate  rela- 
tions. The  subject  that  absorbs  him  has  grown  out  of 
proper  proportions,  and  all  other  subjects  have  shrunk 
away  from  it.  I  know  another  man  —  a  man  of  fine 
powers  —  who  is  just  as  much  absorbed  by  the  subject 
of  ventilation  ;  and  though  both  of  these  men  are  re- 
garded by  the  community  as  of  sound  mind,  I  think 
they  are  demonstrably  insane.' 

If  we  rise  into  larger  fields,  we  shall  find  more  no- 
table demonstration  of  the  starving  efiect  of  the  enter- 
tainment of  a  single  idea.  Scattered  throughout  the 
country  we  shall  find  men  who  have  devoted  themselves 
to  the  cause  of  temperance,  or  abstinence  from  intoxi- 
cating liquors.  Here  is  a  grand,  a  humane,  a  most 
worthy  and  important  cause  ;  yet  temperance  as  an 
idea  is  not  enough  to  furnish  food  for  a  human  soul. 
Some  of  these  men  have  only  room  in  them  for  one 
idea,  and,  so  far  as  they  are  concerned,  it  might  as  well 
be  temperance  as  any  thing,  though  it  is  bad  for  the 


214  Leflbns  in  Life. 

cause  ;  but  the  majority  of  them  were,  at  starting,  men 
of  generous  instincts,  a  quick  sense  of  that  which  is 
pure  and  true,  and  a  genuine  love  of  mankind.  They 
dwelt  upon  their  idea — they  lived  upon  it  for  a  few 
years — and  then  they  "  showed  "their  keeping."  If  I 
should  wish  to  find  a  narrow-minded,  uncharitable,  Big- 
oted soul,  in  the  smallest  possible  space  of  time,  I  would 
look  among  those  who  have  made  temperance  the 
specialty  of  their  lives — not  because  temperance  is  bad, 
but  because  one  idea  is  bad ;  and  the  men  afflicted 
by  this  particular  idea  are  numerous  and  notorious. 
They  have  no  faith  in  any  man  who  does  not  believe 
exactly  as  they  do.  They  accuse  every  man  of  unwor- 
thy motives  who  opposes  them.  They  permit  no  liberty 
of  individual  judgment  and  no  range  of  opinion  ;  and 
when  they  get  a  chance,  they  drive  legislation  into  the 
most  absurd  and  harmful  extremes.  Men  of  one  idea 
are  always  extremists,  and  extremists  are  always  nui- 
sances. I  might  truthfully  add  that  an  extremist  is 
never  a  man  of  sound  mind, 

The  whole  tribe  of  professional  agitators  and  mis- 
called reformers  are  men  of  one  idea.  That  these  men 
do  good,  sometimes  directly  and  frequently  indirectly, 
I  do  not  deny  ;  and  it  is  equally  evident  that  they  do  a 
great  deal  of  harm,  the  worst  of  which,  perhaps,  falls 
upon  themselves.  Like  the  charge  of  a  cannon,  they 
do  damage  to  an  enemy's  fortifications,  but  they  burn 


Men  of  One  Idea.  215 

up  the  powder  there  is  in  them,  and  lose  the  ball.  Like 
blind  old  Samson,  they  may  prostrate  the  pillars  of  a 
great  wrong,  but  they  crush  themselves  and  the  Philis- 
tines together.  The  greatest  and  truest  reformer  that 
ever  lived  was  Jesus  Christ ;  but  ah !  the  difference 
between  his  broad  aims,  universal  sympathies,  and  over- 
flowing love,  and  the  malignant  spirit  that  moves  those 
who  angrily  beat  themselves  to  death  against  an  insti- 
tuted wrong  !  As  an  illustration,  look  at  those  who 
have  been  the  prominent  agitators  of  the  slavery  ques- 
tion in  this  country  for  the  last  twenty  years.  Are 
they  men  of  charity  ?  Are  they  Christian  men  ?  Is 
not  invective  the  chosen  and  accustomed  language  of 
their  lips?  Do  they  not  follow  those  against  whom 
they  have  opposed  themselves,  whether  for  good  cause 
or  otherwise,  into  their  graves  with  a  fiendish  lust  of 
cruelty,  and  do  they  not  delight  to  trample  upon  great 
names  and  sacred  memories  ?  Are  they  men  whom  we 
love  ?  Do  we  feel  attracted  to  their  society  ?  Teach- 
ers of  toleration,  are  they  not  the  most  intolerant  of  all 
men  living?  Denouncers  of  bigotry,  are  they  not  the 
most  fiercely  bigoted  of  any  men  we  know  ?  Preachers 
of  love  and  good  will  to  men,  do  they  not  use  more 
forcibly  than  any  other  class  the  power  of  words  to 
wound  and  poison  human  sensibilities  ? 

It  is  not  the  quality  of  the  idea  w/iich  a  man  enter- 
tains that  kills  him.     Freedom  for  every  creature  that 


216  Leffons  in  Life. 

bears  God's  image — the  breaking  of  the  rod  of  the  op- 
pressor and  letting  the  oppressed  go  free — this  is  a 
good  idea.  It  is  so  great,  so  broad,  so  full,  so  flowing, 
that  a  world  of  men  might  gather  around  it  for  a  time  as 
they  do  around  Niagara,  and  grow  divine  in  its  majestic 
music  and  the  vision  of  the  wreath  of  light  which  heav- 
en holds  above  it.  If  a  man  undertake  to  live  upon  a 
single  idea,  it  really  makes  very  little  difference  to  him 
whether  that  idea  be  a  good  or  a  bad  one.  A  man 
may  as  well  get  scurvy  on  beans  as  beef.  I  suppose  a 
diet  of  potatoes  would  be  quite  as  likely  to  support  life 
comfortably  as  a  diet  of  peaches.  It  is  because  the 
human  soul  cannot  live  upon  one  thing  alone,  but  de- 
mands participation  in  every  expression  of  the  life  of 
God,  that  it  will  dwarf  and  starve  upon  even  the  grand- 
est and  most  divine  idea. 

The  agitators  and  reformers  are  very  ready  to  see 
the  dwarfing  effect  of  a  single  idea  or  a  single  range  of 
ideas  xipon  the  Christian  ministry,  and  a  large  number 
of  Christian  men.  I  admit  the  accuracy  of  their  obser- 
vations in  this  matter,  and,  admitting  this,  I  can  cer- 
tainly ask  the  question  whether  they  hope  to  escape 
depreciation  when  the  Christian  idea — the  divinest  of 
all — is  insufficient  of  itself  to  make  a  man,  and  fill  him, 
and  give  him  all  desirable  health  and  wealth  and 
growth.  As  I  have  touched  upon  this  point,  I  may 
say  that  it  is  coming  to  be  understood  that  a  man  or  a 


Men  of  One  Idea.  217 

minister,  iu  order  to  be  a  Christian,  must  be  something 
else — that  Christianity  received  into  nature  and  life  is 
only  one  of  the  elements  of  manhood — and  that  a  man 
may  become  starved  and  mean  and  bigoted  and  essen- 
tially insane  by  feeding  exclusively  upon  religion. 
What  means  the  vision  of  these  sapless,  sad,  and  sanc- 
timonious Christians — these  poor,  thin,  stingy  lives—- 
but that  all  ideas  save  the  religious  one  have  been  shut 
out  from  them  ?  Is  it  not  notorious  that  a  minister 
who  has  fed  exclusively  upon  religion  is  a  man  without 
power  upon  the  hearts  and  minds  of  men  ?  Is  it  not 
true  that  he  has  most  efficiency  in  pulpit  ministration 
who  has  the  largest  knowledge  of  and  sympathy  with 
men,  the  broadest  culture,  and  the  widest  acquaintance 
with  all  the  ideas  that  enter  as  food  and  motive  into 
human  life  ?  Is  it  not  true  that  in  the  life -long,  absorb- 
ing anxiety  and  carefulness  of  a  multitude  of  souls  to 
secure  their  salvation,  those  souls  are  constantly  be- 
coming less  valuable,  and  thus — to  use  the  language  of 
the  market — less  worth  saving  ? 

I  cannot  fail,  however  unwilling,  to  see  much  that 
is  dry  and  stiff  and  unlovely  in  the  style  of  Christianity 
around  me.  It  has  no  attraction  for  me.  I  do  not 
like  the  people  who  illustrate  it ;  and  the  reason  is,  not 
that  they  have  got  too  much  of  Christianity,  but  that 
they  have  not  got  enough  of  any  thing  else.  Flour  is 
good,  but  flour  is  not  bread.  If  I  am  to  eat  flour,  I 
10 


218  Leffons  in  Life. 

must  eat  it  as  bread ;  and  either  milk  or  water  must 
be  used  to  make  it  bread.  If  a  little  milk  is  used,  the 
bread  will  be  dry  and  heavy  and  hard.  If  a  good  deal 
is  used,  the  flour  will  be  transformed  into  a  soft  and 
plastic  mass,  which  will  rise  in  .the  heat,  and  come  to 
my  lips  a  sweet  and  fragrant  morsel.  Christianity  is 
good,  but  it  wants  mixing  with  humanity  before  it  will 
have  a  practical  value.  If  only  a  little  humanity  be 
mixed  with  it,  the  product  will  be  dry  and  tasteless ; 
but  if  it  be  combined  with  the  real  milk  of  humanity, 
and  enough  of  it,  the  result  will  be  a  loaf  fit  for  the 
tongues  of  angels.  No  :  the  divinest  idea  that  has  yet 
been  apprehended  by  the  human  mind  is  not  enough 
for  the  human  mind.  That  which  God  made  to  be  fed 
by  various  food  cannot  be  fed  with  success  or  safety  by 
a  single  element.  We  cannot  build  a  house  of  dry 
bricks.  It  takes  lime  and  sand  and  water  in  their 
proper  proportions  to  hold  the  bricks  together. 

This  selection  of  a  single  idea  from  the  great  world 
of  ideas  to  which  the  mind  is  vitally  related,  and  mak- 
ing it  food  and  drink,  and  motive  and  pivotal  point  of 
action,  and  supreme  object  of  devotion,  is  mental  and 
moral  suicide.  It  makes  that  a  despotic  king  which 
should  be  a  tributary  subject.  It  enslaves  the  soul  to 
a  base  partisanship.  It  is  right  to  make  money,  and  it 
is  right  to  be  rich  when  wealth  is  won  legitimately ; 
but  when  money  becomes  the  supreme  object  of  a 


Men  of"  One  Idea.  219 

man's  life,  the  soul  starves  as  rapidly  as  the  coffers  are 
filled.  It  is  right  to  be  a  temperance  man  and  an  anti- 
slavery  man,  and  an  advocate  of  any  special  Christian 
reform ;  but  the  effect  of  adopting  any  one  of  these 
reforms  as  the  supreme  object  of  a  man's  pursuit,  never 
fails  to  belittle  him.  One  of  the  most  pitiable  objects 
the  "world  contains  is  a  man  of  generous  natural  im- 
pulses grown  sour,  impatient,  bitter,  abusive,  unchari- 
table, and  ungracious,  by  devotion  to  one  idea,  and 
the  failure  to  impress  it  upon  the  world  with  the 
strength  by  which  it  possesses  himself.  Many  of  these 
fondly  hug  the  delusion  to  themselves  that  they  are 
martyrs,  when,  in  fact,  they  are  only  suicides.  Many 
of  these  look  forward  to  the  day  when  posterity  will 
canonize  them,  and  lift  them  to  the  glory  of  those  who 
were  not  received  by  their  age  because  they  were  in 
advance  of  their  age.  So  they  regard,  with  contempt 
the  pigmy  world,  wrap  the  mantles  of  their  mortified 
pride  about  them,  and  lie  down  in  a  delusive  dream  of 
immortality. 

Whether  the  effect  of  devotion  to  a  single  idea  be 
disastrous  or  otherwise  to  the  devotees,  nothing  in  all 
history  is  better  proved — nothing  in  all  philosophy  is 
more  clearly  demonstrable — than  the  fact  that  it  is  a 
damage  to  the  idea.  If  I  wished  to  disgust  a  commu- 
nity with  any  special  idea,  I  would  set  a  man  talking 
about  it  and  advocating  it  who  would  talk  of  nothing 


220  Leflbns  in  Life. 

else.  If  I  wished  to  ruin  a  cause  utterly,  I  would  sub- 
mit it  to  the  advocacy  of  one  who  would  thrust  it  into 
every  man's  face,  who  would  make  every  other  cause 
subordinate  to  it,  who  would  refuse  to  see  any  objec- 
tions to  it,  who  would  accuse  all  opponents  of  unworthy 
motives,  and  who  would  thus  exhibit  his  absolute  slavery 
to  it.  Men  have  an  instinct  which  tells  them  that  such 
people  as  these  are  not  trustworthy — that  their  senti- 
ments and  opinions  are  as  valueless  as  those  of  children. 
If  they  talk  with  a  pleasant  spirit,  we  good-naturedly 
tolerate  them ;  if  they  rant  and  scold  and  denounce,  we 
hiss  them  if  we  think  it  worth  while,  or  we  applaud  them 
as  we  would  the  feats  of  a  dancing  bear.  If  they  say 
devilish  things  in  a  heavenly  sort  of  way,  and  clothe 
their  black  malignities  in  silken  phrases,  we  hear  them 
with  a  certain  kind  of  pleasure,  and  take  our  revenge 
in  despising  them,  and  feeling  malicious  towards  the 
cause  they  advocate.  It  would  kill  us  to  drink  Cologne 
water,  but  the  perfume  titillates  the  sense,  and  so  we 
sprinkle  it  upon  our  handkerchiefs. 

No  great  cause  can  be  forwarded  by  the  advocacy 
of  men  who  have  no  character,  and  no  man  can  devote 
himself  to  an  idea  without  the  loss  of  character.  When 
a  man  comes  forward  to  promulgate  an  idea,  we  inquire 
into  his  credentials.  How  large  a  man  is  this  ?  How 
broad  are  his  sympathies  ?  How  wide  is  his  knowl- 
edge ?  What  relation  does  he  bear  to  the  great  world 


Men  of  One  Idea.  221 

of  ideas  &mong  which  this  is  only  one,  and  very  likely 
a  comparatively  unimportant  one  ?  Is  he  so  weak  as 
to  be  possessed  by  this  idea,  or  does  he  possess  it,  and 
entertain  a  rational  comprehension  of  its  relations  to 
himself  and  the  community  ?  I  know  that  multitudes 
of  good  men  have  been  so  disgusted  with  the  one-sided, 
partisan  character  of  the  advocates  of  special  ideas  and 
special  reforms,  that  they  would  have  no  association 
with  them.  We  have  only  to  learn  that  a  man  can  see 
nothing  but  his  pet  idea,  and  is  really  in  its  possession, 
to  lose  all  confidence  in  his  judgment.  When  in  a 
court  of  justice  a  man  testifies  upon  a  point  that 
touches  his  personal  interests  or  feelings  or  relations, 
we  say  that  his  testimony  is  not  valuable — not  reliable. 
It  decides  nothing  for  us.  We  say  that  the  evidence 
does  not  come  from  the  proper  source.  We  do  not  expect 
candor  from  him,  for  we  perceive  that  his  interests  are 
too  deeply  involved  to  allow  sound  judgment  and  ut- 
terly truthful  expression.  It  is  precisely  thus  with  all 
professional  agitators  and  reformers — all  devotees  of 
single  ideas.  They  are  personally  so  intimately  con- 
nected with  their  idea — have  been  so  enslaved  by  their 
idea — are  so  interested  in  its  prosperity — that  they  are 
not  competent  to  testify  with  relation  to  it. 


LESSON  XVI. 

SHYING   PEOPLE. 

"  It  is  jealousy's  peculiar  nature 
To  swell  small  things  to  great ;  nay,  out  of  naught 
To  conjure  much  :  and  then  to  lose  its  reason 
Amid  the  hideous  phantoms  it  has  formed." 

Yotmo. 

"I  will  not  shut  me  from  my  kind ; 
And,  lest  I  stiffen  into  stone, 
I  will  not  eat  my  heart  alone, 
Nor  feed  with  sighs  a  passing  wind." 
TENNYSON. 

"  Fear  is  the  virtue  of  slaves ;  hut  the  heart  that  loveth  is  willing." 

LONGFELLOW. 

READER,  did  you  ever  drive  a  horse  that  had  the 
mean  habit  of  shying  ?  If  so,  then  you  will  re- 
member how  constantly  he  was  on  the  lookout  for  ob- 
jects that  would  frighten  him.  He  would  never  wait 
for  the  bugbear  to  show  its  head ;  but  he  conjured  it 
up  at  every  point.  Every  hair  upon  his  sides  seemed 
transformed  into  an  eye ;  and  there  was  not  a  colored 


Shying  People.  223 

stone,  nor  a  stick  of  wood,  nor  a  bit  of  paper,  nor  a 
small  dog,  nor  a  shadow  across  the  road,  nor  any  thing 
that  introduced  variety  into  his  passage,  that  did  not 
seem  to  be  endowed  with  some  marvellous  power  of 
repulsion.  First  he  dodged  to  the  right,  after  having 
foreseen  the  evil  from  afar,  and  wrought  himself  up  to 
a  fearful  pitch  of  sidelong  excitement;  and  then  he 
dodged  to  the  left,  having  been  surprised  into  passing 
a  cat  without  alarm ;  and  so,  dodging  to  the  right  and 
left,  he  has  half  worried  the  life  out  of  you.  Being 
constantly  on  guard,  and  always  watching  for  objects 
of  alarm,  and  suspicious  of  dangei's  in  disguise,  he  has 
had  no  difficulty  in  maintaining  a  condition  of  perma- 
nent fright,  which  has  worked  itself  off  in  spasms  of 
shying.  To  a  man  who  has  driven  a  horse  up  to  a 
locomotive  without  danger  or  fear,  such  an  animal  as 
this  seems  to  be  unworthy  of  the  name  of  a  horse ;  and 
to  one  who  has  read  of  the  spirit  and  fearlessness  of  the 
war-horse,  a  shying  horse  seems  to  be  the  most  con- 
temptible of  his  race. 

Well,  I  have  met  shying  men,  and  I  meet  them 
upon  the  sidewalk  almost  every  day.  I  have  watched 
them  from  afar,  and  known  by  their  eyes  and  a  certain 
preparatory  nervousness  of  body,  that  they  would 
"  shy  "  at  me.  I  have  been  conscious,  however,  that 
there  was  nothing  in  me  to  shy  at.  I  have  had  no  pis- 
tols in  my  pocket,  and  no  Bowie  knife  under  my  coat- 


224  Leflbns  in  Life. 

collar.  I  have  been  innocent  of  any  intention  to  leap 
upon  and  throttle  them.  I  have  had  no  purpose  to 
trip  their  heels  by  a  sudden  "  flank  movement,"  and 
not  even  the  desire  to  knock  their  hats  off.  Indeed,  I 
have  felt  toward  them  a  degree  of  friendliness  and  kind- 
ness which  I  would  have  been  very  glad  to  express, 
had  they  afforded  me  an  opportunity ;  but  they  were 
shying  men  by  nature,  or  by  habit,  or  by  whim.  So 
far  as  I  have  been  able  to  ascertain  the  causes  of  their 
infirmity,  it  is  the  result  of  a  suspicion  that  they  are 
not  quite  as  good  as  other  people,  and  a  belief  that 
other  people  understand  the  fact.  Far  be  it  from  me 
to  deny  that  their  suspicions  touching  themselves  are 
well-grounded ;  but  that  is  no  reason  why  other  peo- 
ple should  not  speak  to  them  politely.  There  is  a  class 
of  men  and  women  who  are  always  looking  out  for, 
and  expecting,  slights  from  those  whom  they  suppose 
to  be  their  superiors.  They  get  a  suspicion  that  a  cer- 
tain man  feels  above  them  ;  so  when  they  pass  him  in 
the  street,  they  shy  at  him — go  around  him — will  not 
give  him  an  opportunity  to  be  polite  to  them.  They 
are  martyrs,  as  they  suppose,  to  unjust  social  distinc- 
tions. They  act  as  if  they  were  painfully  uncertain  as 
to  whether  they  are  men  and  women  or  spaniels. 

Now  by  the  side  of  the  person  who  carries  an  un- 
suspicious, self-respectful,  open  face,  into  any  presence, 
such  people  as  these  seem  unworthy  of  the  race  to 


Shying  People.  225 

which  they  belong.  It  is  not  the  bold,  brassy,  self-as- 
serting man  who  is  their  superior,  because  his  sort  of 
offensive  forwardness  originates  in  even  a  worse  state 
of  mind  and  heart  than  the  habit  of  shying.  "When  a 
man  shies,  he  only  suspects  that  he  is  inferior  to  his 
surroundings.  When  a  man  offensively  puts  himself 
forward,  and  talks  loudly  among  his  betters,  he  knows 
he  is  mean,  and  knows  that  he  is  not  where  he  belongs. 
You  will  find  a  professional  gambler  to  be  a  loud- 
mouthed man,  who  not  only  does  not  shy  at  his  bet- 
ters, but  who  seeks  all  convenient  opportunities  for 
associating  with  them,  and  claiming  an  equality  with 
them.  The  shying  man  is  one  who  has  not  much  re- 
spect for  himself,  who  is  envious  and  jealous  of  others, 
and  who,  however  strongly  he  may  protest  against  the 
charge,  has  the  most  abject  respect  for  social  position 
and  arbitrary  social  distinctions.  If  he  see  a  man  who 
either  assumes  or  seems  to  be  above  him,  it  is  a  reason 
in  his  mind  why  that  man  should  not  notice  him.  The 
result  is  that  decent  men  soon  take  him  at  his  own  val- 
uation, and  notice  him  no  more  than  they  would  a 
dog ;  and  they  serve  him  right. 

I  know  of  no  more  thankless  task  than  the  attempt 
to  assure  shying  people  that  we  love  them,  respect 
them,  and  are  glad  to  continue  their  acquaintance. 
The  instances  in  which  old  school-mates  meet  in  the 
journey  of  life  with  a  sickening  coolness,  in  conse- 
10* 


226  Leflbns  in  Life. 

quence  of  changed  circumstances  and  relations,  are  of 
every-day  occurrence.  Two  persons  who  separated 
at  the  school-house  door  in  dawning  manhood,  with 
equal  prospects,  come  together  later  in  life.  One  has 
risen  in  the  world,  has  won  hosts  of  friends,  has  been 
put  forward  by  them  into  public  office,  perhaps,,  and 
has  acquired  a  competence.  The  other  has  remained 
upon  the  old  homestead,  has  had  a  hard  life,  and  has 
won  neither  distinction  nor  wealth.  The  fortunate 
man  grasps  the  hand  of  the  other  with  all  the  cordiality 
of  his  nature  and  of  his  honest  friendship;  but  he 
meets  a  reserve  which  may  be  almost  sullen.  He 
strives  to  call  up  the  scenes  gone  by — the  old  school- 
sports — the  school  companions,  boys  and  girls — the  old 
neighborhood  friendships — but  they  will  not  come. 
All  attempts  to  touch  the  heart  of  his  former  school- 
mate, and  bring  him  into  sympathy  through  the  power 
of  association,  fail.  The  poor  fool  suspects  his  friend 
of  patronizing  him,  and  he  will  not  be  patronized. 
Feeling  that  his  friend  has  got  along  in  the  world  bet- 
ter than  himself,  he  cannot  understand  why  he  should 
not  be  regarded  as  an  inferior,  and  treated  as  such. 

o  ' 

Thenceforward,  the  fortunate  man  must  seek  the  so- 
ciety of  the  unfortunate  man,  or  he  will  never  have  it. 
The  former  may  give  practical  recognition  of  entire 
equality,  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  but  it  will  avail 
nothing,  for  the  latter  will  not  "  toady  "  to  his  friend, 


Shying  People.  227 

nor  be  "  patronized  "  by  him.  At  last  the  fortunate 
man  becomes  tired  of  the  effort  to  make  his  unfortu- 
nate friend  understand  him,  and  he  kicks  him  and  his 
memory  aside,  and  calls  it  a  friendship  closed  forever, 
without  fault  upon  his  part. 

I  have  often  wished  that  it  could  be  understood  by 
these  people  who  are  so  uncertain  in  regard  to  their 
position,  and  so  suspicious  that  everybody  has  the  dis- 
position to  slight  them,  and  so  much  afraid  of  being 
patronized,  and  so  averse  to  the  thought  of  "  toadying  " 
that  they  stand  stiffly  aloof  from  the  society  which  they 
envy,  and  so  much  offended  with  people  for  feeling 
above  them,  that  their  sentiments  and  feelings  are  suffi- 
cient reasons  for  society  to  hold  them  in  contempt. 
There  is  a  lack  of  self-respect — a  meanness — in  their 
position,  that  is  really  a  sufficient  apology  for  treating 
them  with  entire  social  neglect.  They  habitually  mis- 
construe those  among  whom  they  move ;  they  are  ex- 
acting of  attention  to  the  last  degree ;  they  are  always 
uncomfortable,  and  they  are  ready  to  take  offense  at 
the  smallest  fancied  provocation.  I  have  now  in  my 
mind  an  artisan  whom  I  had  occasion  to  get  acquainted 
with  a  dozen  years  ago  ;  and  I  have  compelled  him  to 
speak  to  me  every  time  I  have  met  him  since.  I  really 
do  not  know  what  he  had  done  to  make  him  regard 
himself  so  contemptuously,  but  I  think  he  has  never  to 
this  day  fully  believed  that  I  have  the  slightest  respect 


228  LeiTons  in  Life. 

for  him.  He  has  tried  to  dodge  me.  He  has  shied 
repeatedly,  but  I  have  compelled  him  to  make  me  a 
good-natured  bow,  till  he  begins  to  like  it,  I  think — 
till  he  expects  it,  at  least. 

Many  children  are  bred  to  the  idea  that  certain 
families  are  socially  above  them.  They  are  taught 
from  their  cradles  to  consider  themselves  in  a  certain 
sense  inferior.  How  few  American  children  are  taught 
that  there  is  no  degradation  in  poverty,  and  that  a 
humble  employment  and  an  obscure  position  are  en- 
tirely consistent  with  self-respect,  under  all  circum- 
stances, in  whatever  society.  I  do  not  mean  to  say 
that  they  have  not  heard  their  parents  remark  that 
they  were  "as  good  as  anybody."  There  is  enough 
of  this  talk ;  and  it  is  precisely  this  which  teaches 
children  that  they  are  born  to  what  their  parents  con- 
sider dishonor, — inferiority  to  their  neighbors.  It  is 
impossible  for  children  who  have  been  bred  in  this  way 
ever  to  outgrow,  entirely,  their  feeling  of  inferiority. 
The  people  who  are  entirely  self-respectful  never  have 
any  thing  to  say  about  their  position  in  the  presence 
of  their  children ;  and  it  is  a  cruel  thing  to  teach  a 
child,  not  that  there  is  a  grade  of  society  Avhich  is  act- 
ually above  him,  but  that  the  persons  who  occupy 
that  grade  look  down  upon  him — and,  in  the  consti- 
tution of  society,  have  the  right  to  look  down  upon 
him — with  contempt.  To  see  an  honest  lad  in  humble 


Shying  People.  229 

clothing  actually  awed  by  finding  himself  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  well-dressed  child  of  affluence,  is  very  pitiful ; 
and  there  are  thousands  of  these  poor  boys  who,  hav- 
ing won  wealth  and  distinction,  never  in  their  con- 
sciousness lose  their  early  estate  sufficiently  to  feel  at 
home  with  those  among  whom  the  advance  of  fortune 
has  brought  them. 

A  thoroughly  self-respectful  person  will  command 
respect  anywhere.  A  man  who  carries  into  the  world  an 
unsuspecting,  unassuming  face,  who  is  polite  to  every- 
body, minds  his  own  business,  and  does  not  show  by  his 
demeanor  that  he  bears  about  with  him  a  sense  of  degra- 
dation and  inferiority,  and  who  gives  evidence  that  he 
considers  himself  a  man,  and  expects  the  treatment  due 
to  a  man,  will  secure  politeness  and  respect  from  every 
true  gentleman  and  gentlewoman  in  the  world.  The  man 
who  shies,  and  suspects,  and  envies,  and  is  full  of  petty 
jealousies,  and  is  always  afraid  that  he  shall  not  get 
all  that  is  due  to  him  in  the  way  of  polite  attention,  and 
manifests  a  feeling  of  great  uncertainty  and  anxiety 
concerning  his  own  social  position,  is  sure  to  be  shun- 
ned at  last,  and  he  will  well  deserve  his  fate.  No  real 
gentleman,  pnd  no  true  gentlewoman,  ever  has  feelings 
like  these.  It  is  only  those  who  are  neither,  and  who 
'do  not  deserve  the  position  of  either,  that  are  troubled 
in  this  way.  I  give  it  as  a  deliberate  judgment  that 
there  is  far  less,  of  contempt  for  the  poor  and  obscure 


230  Leffons  in  Life. 

among  what  are  denominated  the  higher  classes  of 
society  than  there  is  of  envy  and  hatred  of  the  rich  and 
renowned  among  the  poor  and  humble ;  and  that  the 
principal  bar  to  a  more  cordial  and  gentle  intercourse 
between  the  two  classes,  is  the  lack  of  self-respect 
which  pervades  the  latter,  and  the  mean,  degrading 
humility  which  they  manifest  in  all  their  relations  with 
those  whom  they  consider  above  their  level. 

American  society  is  mixed — heterogeneous — more 
BO,  probably,  than  that  of  any  other  country.  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  well-defined  classification.  There  is 
no  nobility,  no  gentry,  no  aristocracy,  no  peasantry. 
The  owners  of  palaces  were  bred  in  log  cabins ;  men 
of  learning  arc  the  children  of  boors;  and  one  can 
never  tell  by  a  man's  position  and  relations  in  society 
into  what  style  of  life  he  was  born.  The  boy  goes 
into  the  city  from  his  father's  farm,  carrying  only  a 
hardy  frame,  a  good  heart,  and  a  suit  of  homespun,  and 
twenty  years  frequently  suffice  to  establish  him  as  a 
man  of  fortune,  and  marry  him  to  a  woman  of  fashion. 
There  is  no  bar  to  progress  in  any  direction  for  the 
ambitious  man,  except  lack  of  brains  and  tact.  Society 
erects  no  barriers  of  caste  which  define  the  bounds  of 
his  liberty.  Notwithstanding  this,  there  is  always,  in 
every  place,  a  body  of  people  who  assume  to  be  "  the 
best  society."  The  claim  to  the  title  is  rarely  well 
substantiated,  and  is  based  on  different  ideas  in  differ- 


Shying  People.  231 

ent  places.  We  shall  find  in  some  places,  that  society 
crystallizes  around  the  idea  of  wealth  ;  in  others,  around 
the  idea  of  literary  culture  ;  in  others,  around  certain 
religious  views,  so  that,  as  it  may  happen,  the  "  best 
society  "  is  constituted  of  the  Presbyterian,  or  Episco- 
palian, or  Unitarian,  or  other  sectarian  element.  In 
other  places,  an  old  family  name  is  the  central  power, 
and,  in  others  still,  a  certain  style  of  family  life  attracts 
sympathetic  materials  which  assume  the  position  of 
"  the  best  society." 

Whatever  may  be  the  central  idea  of  the  self-con- 
stituted elite,  they  are  always  the  objects  of  the  envy 
of  a  large  number  of  minds.  Silly  people  "  lie  awake 
nights  "  to  get  into  the  best  society.  Those  who  are 
securely  in,  of  course  sleep  soundly  in  their  safety  and 
their  self-complacency ;  and  those  who  are  too  low  to 
think  of  rising  to  it,  and  those  who  do  not  care  for  it, 
go  through  the  six  to  ten  hours  of  their  slumber  "  with- 
out landing,"  as  the  North  River  boatmen  say.  But  a 
middle  class,  who  range  along  the  ragged  edges  of  so- 
ciety, know  no  rest.  They  sail  along  in  an  uncertain 
way,  like  the  moon  on  the  border  of  a  cloud — some- 
times in  and  sometimes  out — feeling  naked  and  very 
much  exposed  among  the  stars,  and  rather  foggy  and 
confused  in  the  cloud,  as  if,  after  all,  they  did  not  be- 
long there.  It  is  in  this  class  that  we  meet  with  shying 
men  and  shying  women.  It  is  in  this  class  that  we  find 


232  Leffons  in  Life. 

heart-burnings,  and  jealousies,  and  envy  ings,  and  sen- 
sitive misunderstandings.  It  is  a  sort  of  purgatory 
through  which  the  rising  man  and  woman  pass  to  reach 
the  paradise  of  their  hope,  and  from  which  an  unhappy 
soul  is  never  lifted.  These  people  do  not  stop  to  in- 
quire whether  they  have  any  sympathy,  or  any  thing  in 
common  with  the  society  which  they  seek — whether 
they  would  be  lost,  or  whether  they  would  be  at  home 
in  it.  They  cfo  not  even  seem  to  suspect  that  much 
of  that  which  is  called  the  best  society,  is  the  last  so- 
ciety that  a  sensible,  good  man  should  seek. 

Let  us  suppose  that  wealth  is  the  central  idea  of  the 
best  society,  and  then  let  the  aspirant  to  this  society 
ask  himself  whether  he  has  wealth.  Has  he  a  fine 
house  and  an  elegant  turnout  ?  Does  he  dress  expen- 
sively, and  is  he  able  to  give  costly  entertainments  ? 
Is  he  prepared  to  unite,  on  a  plane  of  perfect  equality, 
with  those  who  give  the  law  to  this  society  ?  If  so, 
it  will  not  be  necessary  for  him  to  seek  it,  for  the  so- 
ciety will  seek  him, — that  is,  if  he  be  an  agreeable 
man.  If  he  be  very  rich  indeed,  why,  it  is  not  neces- 
sary that  he  be  agreeable  at  all.  But  suppose  literary 
culture  be  the  central  force  of  this  society — has  the  aspi- 
rant any  fitness  for,  or  sympathy  with  it  ?  Can  he  meet 
those  who  form  this  society  as  an  equal,  or  mingle  in  it 
as  a  thoroughly  sympathetic  element?  Would  he  feel 
happy  and  at  home  in  a  literary  atmosphere  ?  Those 


Shying  People.  233 

questions  indicate  a  legitimate  direction  of  inquiry, 
touching  every  case  of  this  kind.  Multitudes  of 
those  who  are  dissatisfied  with  their  position  have 
nothing  in  common  with  the  society  to  which  they  as- 
pire, and  would  be  so  much  out  of  place  there  that 
they  would  be  very  unhappy.  My  idea,  then,  is,  that 
so  far  as  society  is  concerned,  men  and  women  natu- 
rally find  their  own  place.  A  true  gentleman  and  a 
genuine  gentlewoman,  wherever  they  may  appear,  and 
whoever  they  may  be,  are  as  readily  known  as  any  ob- 
jects ;  and  really  good  society  recognizes  its  affinities 
for  them  at  once.  They  do  not  have  to  seek  for  a 
place,  for  they  fall  into  their  place  as  naturally  as  a 
soldier  falls  into,  and  joins  step  with,  his  company. 

Now  what  can  be  meaner  than  the  jealousy  which 
sits  in  the  circle  where  it  is  really  most  at  home,  and 
regards  with  its  green  and  greedy  eyes,  a  circle  for 
which  it  has  no  affinities,  except  the  affinities  which 
envy  has  for  that  which  it  considers  above  itself?  It 
is  a  meanness,  too,  which  has  two  sides  to  it.  It  is  no- 
torious that  the  black  overseer  upon  the  plantation  is 
severer  with  his  companions  in  slavery  than  a  white 
man  would  be,  and  it  is  just  as  notorious  that  the  man 
who  has  abjectly  bowed  before  the  distinction  of  wealth 
and  social  standing,  always  becomes  insufferably  pre- 
tentious when  fortune  or  favor  lifts  him  to  the  place  of 
his  desire.  The  man  who  shies  those  he  esteems  his 


234  Leffons  in  Life. 

betters  is  always  a  proud  man  at  heart,  or  if  the  adjec- 
tive be  allowable,  an  aristocratic  man ;  and  he  is  very 
careful  to  preserve  his  position  of  comparative  respect- 
ability with  relation  to  those  below  him.  He  will  al- 
ways be  found  to  be  pretentious  in  his  own  circle,  and 
supercilious  with  relation  to  those  in  lower  life.  Is  it 
not  true  that  half  of  the  neighborhood  quarrels  that 
take  place,  and  three-quarters  of  the  slander,  and  all 
the  gossip  that  are  indulged  in,  result  from  these  petty 
jealousies  between  circles,  and  the  sensitiveness  that  is 
felt  regarding  social  standing  on  the  part  of  those  who 
are  not  quite  so  high  in  the  world  as  they  would  like 
to  be? 

I  can  only  notice  briefly  the  shying  that  is  done  by 
the  other  side  of  society.  In  effect,  I  have  done  this 
already,  perhaps,  but  it  is  proper  to  say  directly  that 
there  are  many  moving  in  what  is  called  the  best  so- 
ciety, who,  with  a  suspicion  that  they  do  not  belong 
there,  or  a  feeling  that  their  position  is  not  secure 
there,  shy  a  humble  man  when  they  meet  him,  and 
dodge  all  vulgar  associations.  I  suppose  that  no  true 
gentleman  is  ever  afraid  of  being  mistaken  for  any 
thing  else.  A  gentleman  knows  that  there  is  nothing 
which  is  more  unlike  the  character  of  a  gentleman  than 
the  supercilious  treatment  of  the  humble,  and  the  fear 
of  losing  caste  by  treating  every  class  with  kindness 
and  politeness.  I  recognize  no  difference  between  the 


Shying  People.  235 

two  shying  classes — the  men  who  shy  their  fellow-men 
because  they  are  high,  and  the  men  who  shy  their  fel- 
low-men because  they  are  low.  Both  are  mean,  both 
are  unmanly,  and  both  are  deficient  in  the  self-respect 
necessary  to  the  constitution  of  a  gentleman.  There 
are  no  better  friends  in  the  world — no  men  who  under- 
stand each  other  better — none  who  meet  and  converse 
more  freely  at  their  ease — none  who  have  more  re- 
spect for  each  other — than  a  genuine  gentleman  and  a 
self-respectful  humble  man,  who  knows  his  place  in  the 
social  scale,  and  is  abundantly  satisfied  with  it.  There 
is  no  need  of  any  intercourse  between  men,  of  what- 
ever difference  of  social  standing,  less  dignified  and 
gentle  than  this. 


LESSON  XVII. 

FAITH     IN    HUMANITY. 

"  Say,  what  is  honor  ?    'Tis  the  finest  sense 
Of  justice  which  the  human  mind  can  frame, 
Intent  each  lurking  frailty  to  disclaim, 
And  guard  the  way  of  life  from  all  offense, 
Suffered  or  done."  WORDSWORTH. 

"A  child  of  God  had  rather  ten  thousand  times  suffer  for  Christ,  than  that 
Christ  should  suffer  by  Him." — JOHN  MASON. 

"For  mankind  are  one  in  spirit,  and  an  instinct  bears  along 
Eound  the  earth's  electric  circle  the  swift  flash  of  right  or  wrong ; 
Whether  conscious  or  unconscious,  yet  humanity's  vast  frame 
Through  its  ocean-sounded  fibres  feels  the  gush  of  joy  or  shame; — 
In  the  gain  or  loss  of  one  race,  all  the  rest  have  equal  claim." 

LOWELL. 

O"N"E  of  the  most  reliable  supports  of  that  which  is 
best  in  man  is  faith  in  other  men.  In  truth,  I  be- 
lieve that  no  man  can  lose  his  faith  in  men  and  women, 
and  remain  as  good  a  man  as  he  was  before  the  loss. 
Better  evidence  that  a  man  is  rotten  in  some  portion 
of  his  character,  or  rotten  clean  through  his  character, 
cannot  be  found  than  real,  or  pretended,  loss  of  faith 
in  his  fellows.  "When  a  young  man  tells  me  that  he 


Faith  in  Humanity.  237 

has  no  doubt  that  certain  persons,  publicly  reputed  to 
be  good,  take  sly  drinks  in  their  own  closets,  and  de- 
scend into  grosser  indulgences  when  in  strange  places ; 
that  the  best  men  are  hypocrites ;  that  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  womanly  virtue ;  and  that  appetite  and  selfish- 
ness outweigh  everywhere  principle  and  manly  honor, 
I  know  that,  ninety-nine  times  in  one  hundred,  he  finds 
a  reason  in  his  own  heart  and  life  for  his  declarations. 
I  know  that  he  simply  wishes  to  maintain  a  certain  de- 
gree of  self-respect,  and  that  he  finds  no  way  to  do  this 
save  by  bringing  everybody  around  him  down  to  his 
own  level.  A  man  who  has  lost  his  virtue,  and  is  still 
suffering  under  the  blows  of  conscience,  is  very  loth  to 
believe  that  there  is  any  virtue  in  the  world. 

Yet  there  are  circumstances  in  which  faith  in 
humanity  is  lost  without  fault,  though  never  without 
damage,  on  the  part  of  the  loser ;  and  very  sad  cases 
they  are.  I  remember  an  abused,  broken-hearted,  and 
forsaken  wife,  who  declared  to  me  her  belief  that  her 
husband  was  no  worse  than  other  men  (pleasant  for 
me,  wasn't  it  ?) — that  there  was  not  a  man  in  the  world 
who  could  withstand  temptation,  or  who  would  have 
done  differently  from  her  husband  under  the  same  cir- 
cumstances. Why  was  this  ?  She  had  loved  this  man 
with  all  the  devotion  of  which  her  warm  woman's  heart 
was  capable ;  she  had  respected  him  as  an  embodiment 
of  all  manly  qualities ;  he  had  impersonated  her  beau 


238  Leffons  in  Life. 

ideal.  If  he — the  peerless,  the  prince — could  fall,  and 
forsake,  and  forget,  who  would  not?  He  who  had 
once  been  to  her  the  noblest  and  best  man  in  the 
world,  could  never  become  worse  than  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Now  one  of  the  foulest  wrongs  and  one  of  the 
deepest  injuries  which  this  man  had  inflicted  upon  his 
wife  was  the  destruction  of  her  faith  in  men.  He  had 
not  only  blotted  out  her  faith  in  him,  but  he  had  blot- 
ted out  her  faith  in  humanity,  and,  of  course,  her  faith 
in  herself.  What  safeguards  of  her  own  virtue  fell 
when  her  faith  in  man  was  destroyed,  she  did  not 
know ;  but,  in  her  innermost  consciousness,  she  must 
have  grown  careless  of  herself — possibly  desperate. 

Hardly  a  month  passes  by  in  which  we  do  not  hear 
of  some  defalcation,  some  lapse  from  integrity,  by  a 
man  who,  through  many  years  of  business  life,  had 
maintained  an  untarnished  reputation.  I  have  half  a 
dozen  such  cases  in  my  memory  now,  and  I  do  not 
know  what  to  make  of  them.  When  I  see  a  character 
standing  to-day  above  all  reproach,  compacted  through 
many  years  of  manly,  honest,  Christian  living,  over- 
thrown to-morrow,  and  trodden  in  the  mire,  I  am 
shocked.  If  such  men  fall,  where  are  we  to  look  for 
those  who  will  not?  If  such  men,  with  worthy  na- 
tures, and  long  practice  of  virtue,  and  myriad  motives 
for  the  maintenance  of  an  unspotted  character,  yield  to 
temptation,  and  are  suddenly  overthrown,  what  reason 


Faith  in  Humanity.  239 

have  I  to  suppose  that  my  partner,  my  brother,  myself, 
shall  escape  ?  I  am  scared,  and  grow  cautious,  and  sus- 
picious. 

Did  you  ever  think  that  there  is  one  individual,  at 
least,  in  the  world — that  possibly  there  are  ten  indi- 
viduals, possibly  one  hundred,  possibly  more — who  be- 
lieve that  you  are,  as  a  man  or  a  woman,  just  as  nearly 
right  as  you  can  be  ?  Did  you  ever  think  that  there 
are  people  who  pin  their  faith  to  you,  who  believe  in 
you,  who  trust  you,  and  that  among  those  people  your 
own  reputation  is  identified  with  the  reputation  of  the 
race  ?  I  care  not  how  humble  a  man  may  be,  there 
are  always  those  who  trust  in  him.  Think  of  the  trust 
which  a  family  of  children  repose  in  their  parents,  and 
of  the  faith  which  the  parents  have  in  their  children. 
Very  humble  the  parents  may  be — very  untrustworthy 
as  moral  guides,  and  judges,  and  authorities ;  but  if 
they  were  angels,  with  the  light  of  heaven  in  their  eyes, 
they  would  not  be  more  confided  in  and  relied  upon  by 
the  little  ones  who  cling  to  their  knees.  So,  at  all  ages, 
we  garner  our  faith  in  individuals ;  and  so,  all  men  and 
women,  however  humble  and  unworthy  they  may  be, 
become  the  objects  and  recipients  of  this  faith. 

Now,  if  there  be  ten  men  and  women  who  have 
garnered  their  faith  in  me — who  believe  in  me,  through 
and  through — and  whose  faith  in  all  humanity  would 
be  sadly  shocked,  if  I  should  fall,  and  prove  to  them 


240  Leflbns  in  Life. 

that  their  confidence  had  been  entirely  misplaced,  then 
I  hold  for  those  ten  persons  the  reputation  of  the  hu- 
man race  in  my  hands.  If  you,  my  reader,  have  at- 
tracted to  yourself  the  honest  faith  of  a  thousand 
hearts,  then  you  hold  in  your  hands,  for  those  hearts, 
the  good  name  of  humanity.  Upon  the  shoulders  of 
each  man  in  the  community,  there  rests  a  great  respon- 
sibility. He  has  not  only  his  own  reputation  to  take 
care  of,  but  he  has  the  reputation  of  his  race.  If  all 
mankind  are  to  be  thought  more  meanly  of  by  man- 
kind, to  be  less  trusted,  and  less  loved,  because  I  have 
been  untrue,  though  my  untruth  touch  but  one  person 
directly,  I  commit  a  great  crime  against  my  race.  Yet 
this  crime  is  nothing  by  the  side  of  that  which  I  com- 
mit against  those  who  have  trusted  in  me.  It  injures 
them  to  think  meanly  of  mankind — to  have  their  con- 
fidence shaken  in  humanity — much  more  than  it  injures 
humanity  to  be  thought  meanly  of.  A  man  may  as 
well  stab  me  as  to  destroy  my  faith  in  my  kind,  for  the 
comfort  and  happiness  of  my  life  depend  upon  the 
maintenance  of  this  faith. 

There  are  not  a  few  men  and  women  in  this  world 
who  arc  thoroughly  conscious  that  not  only  their  im- 
mediate personal  friends  think  better  of  them  than  they 
deserve,  but  that  the  community — all  who  know  them 
— accord  to  them  a  higher  excellence  of  heart  and  life 
than  they  really  possess.  There  are  some  who  seem  fit- 


Faith  in  Humanity.  241 

ted  by  nature  to  attract  the  affection,  and  secure  the  re- 
spect of  all  those  with  whom  they  come  into  contact, 
in  a  very  remarkable  degree ;  and,  yet,  these  persons 
may  be  painfully  conscious,  all  the  while,  that  they  are 
not  so  good  as  they  are  thought  to  be.  They  are  not 
hypocrites ;  they  have  never  intended  to  deceive  any- 
body ;  they  have  never  pretended  to  be  what  they  are 
not ;  but  people  believe  in  them  without  limit.  A 
person  who  has  this  power  of  attracting  the  confidence 
of  men  has  forced  upon  him  an  immense  responsibility. 
To  say  nothing  of  his  duty  to  himself  and  his  God,  he 
owes  it  to  his  race  to  be,  or  to  become,  as  good  as  he 
seems.  It  is  essentially  a  crime  against  humanity  for 
one  who  draws  the  hearts  of  men  to  him  'easily,  to  do 
any  thing  which  will  tend  to  depreciate  their  estimate 
of  his  character.  A  man  should  carry  a  life  thus  ex- 
travagantly over-estimated,  as  he  would  carry  a  cup  of 
wine— careful  that  none  be  spilled,  and  careful  that  no 
impurity  fall  into  it.  It  is  a  great  blessing  to  be  loved 
and  respected — nay  to  be  admired  for  admirable  quali- 
ties— and  when  men  are  generous  enough  to  pay  in  ad- 
vance for  excellence,  they  should  never  be  cheated  in 
the  amount  and  quality  of  the  article. 

There  is  such  a  thing  as  honor  among  men ;  there 

are  such  things  as  modesty,  truth,  and  integrity.    They 

are  qualities  that  belong  to  humanity,  irrespective  of 

religion  and  of  Christian  culture.     There  are  men  so 

11 


242  Leffons  in  Life. 


true  to  their  higher  natures  that  I  would  trust  them 
with  my  name,  my  gold,  my  children,  my  all,  without 
a  doubt.  I  am  proud  to  claim  kinship  with  such  men. 
They  confer  dignity  upon  the  race  of  which  I  am  a 
member.  I  am  glad  to  take  their  hands  in  mine.  Sup- 
pose one  of  these — for  such  things  have  been — should 
deceive  me,  and  I  should  discover  that  my  name  had 
been  abused,  my  gold"  wasted  or  stolen,  and  my  chil- 
dren ruined  by  this  man :  could  I  ever  trust  again  ? 
Should  I  not  be  humiliated?  Should  I  not  feel  dis- 
graced ?  Should  I  ever  be  willing  to  let  another  man 
into  my  heart  ?  Should  I  not  doubt  whether  there  are, 
indeed,  such  things  as  honor,  and  modesty,  and  truth, 
and  integrity,  in  the  world ;  and  thus  doubting,  would 
not  the  strongest  defences  of  my  own  virtue  be  thrown 
down  ?  The  truth  is,  that  no  man  can  do  an  unmanly 
thing  without  inflicting  an  injury  on  the  whole  human 
race.  No  man  can  say  "  I  will  do  as  I  choose,  and  it 
will  be  nobody's  business."  Every  man's  sin  is  every- 
body's business,  literally.  Every  sin  shakes  men's  con- 
fidence in  men,  and  becomes,  whatever  its  origin,  the 
enemy  of  mankind ;  and  all  mankind  have  a  right  to 
make  common  cause  in  its  extermination. 

I  once  heard  a  careless  fellow  say  that  he  "  professed 
nothing  and  lived  up  to  it ; "  but  "  professing  nothing  " 
does  not  exonerate  a  man  at  all,  so  far  as  relates  to  the 
personal  maintenance  of  honor,  purity,  and  truth.  The 


Faith  in  Humanity.  243 

man  who  would  excuse  a  lapse  from  virtue,  or  any  ob- 
liquity of  conduct,  on  the  ground  that  he  did  not  pro- 
fess any  thing,  simply  announces  to  me  the  execrable 
proposition  that  every  man  has  a  kind  or  degree  of 
right  to  be  a  rascal  until  he  pledges  himself  to  be  some- 
thing better.  There  are  altogether  too  many  men  in 
the  world  who  are  keeping  themselves  easy  with  the 
thought  that  if  they  are  not  very  good,  they  never  pre- 
tended or  professed  to  be, — as  if  this  failure  publicly 
to  pronounce  themselves  on  the  side  of  the  highest  mo- 
rality, were  a  sufficient  apology  for  minor  delinquen- 
cies !  It  seems  to  be  a  poultice  of  poppies  to  some  sen- 
sitively inflamed  consciences,  that,  whatever  they  may 
have  done,  they  have  never  broken  promises  volunta- 
rily made,  to  do  right — as  if  there  were  a  release  from 
the  obligation  to  do  right,  in  failing  to  make  the  prom- 
ise!  If  it  will  help  a  man  to  do  right,  publicly  to  pro- 
fess to  do  right,  and  to  do  good  to  other  men  by 
placing  his  influence  on  the  right  side,  then  the  first 
duty  a  man  owes  to  his  race,  is  to  make  this  declara- 
tion. But  I  will  not  linger  here,  because  my  words 
have  led  me  to  the  discussion  of  the  obligations  of  those 
who  have  made  a  profession  of  Christianity,  and  taken 
upon  themselves  the  vows  of  Christian  church-member- 
ship. 

When  a  man  joins  a  Christian  church,  he  becomes 
related  to  that  church  in  the  same  way  that  nature 


244  -  Leffons  in  Life. 

makes  him  related  to  humanity.  The  reputation  of 
the  church  is  placed  in  his  keeping.  He  cannot  do  an 
unchristian  thing  without  injury  to  the  church,  or  with- 
out depreciating,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  every  other 
member.  Think  what  a  blow  is  inflicted  upon  the 
church  of  Jesus  Christ  by  such  scandalous  immoralities 
as  some  of  its  most  prominent  members  have  been 
guilty  of — by  forgeries,  and  adulteries,  and  drunken- 
ness !  These  cases  are  not  common,  but  when  they 
occur,  they  are  blows  under  which  the  church  reels. 
The  outside  world  looks  on,  and  scoffs  :  "  Aha !  That's 
your  Christianity,  is  it  ?  " 

I  declare  that  I  do  not  know  of  a  position  that 
more  strongly  appeals  to  a  man's  personal  honor  than 
that  of  membership  in  a  Christian  church.  Even  if  a 
man  in  such  a  position  should  say  within  himself: 
"  This  costs  more  than  it  comes  to.  I  love  my  vices 
more  than  I  love  the  Master  whose  name  I  profess. 
Either  openly  or  secretly,  I  will  give  rein  to  my  appe- 
tites and  passions  " — he  should  be  arrested  by  the  con- 
sideration that  he  proposes  to  do  that  which  will  wound 
the  feelings,  and  degrade  the  position,  and  injure  the 
influence,  of  thousands  of  the  best  men  and  women  in 
the  world ;  that  he  proposes  to  inflict  an  irreparable 
injury  upon  a  cause  which  has  never  injured  him,  and 
whose  office  it  is  to  save  him,  and  all  mankind.  Per- 
haps he  is  so  weak,  and  temptation  is  so  strong,  that 


Faith  in  Humanity.  245 

he  feels,  in  the  stress  of  his  trial,  that  he  can  afford  to 
perjure  his  own  soul ;  but  if  he  does,  he  has  no  right 
to  wound  others.  Better  fight  the  devil  until  the  anL 
mal  within  us  bleeds  at  every  vein — until  it  dies,  if 
that  must  be — than  "  offend  one  of  these  little  ones." 
A  man  who  will  join  a  church,  and  then  lead  an  un- 
christian life,  not  only  demonstrates  before  the  world 
his  hypocrisy,  but  he  voluntarily  undertakes  to  prove 
that  he  has  no  personal  honor.  An  honorable  man  will 
sacrifice  himself  always  before  he  will  voluntarily  in- 
flict injury  upon  a  cause  he  has  pledged  himself  to  sus- 
tain, and  upon  men  and  women  whose  good  name  is  in 
his  hands.  When  a  member  of  a  church  has  become 
so  hardened  in  a  course  of  bad  living,  that  no  pang 
comes  to  him  when  he  thinks  of  the  injury  he  is  inflict- 
ing upon  the  Christian  church,  he  is  bad  enough  for  a 
prison.  I  would  not  trust  him  the  length  of  my  arm. 

We  have  had,  within  the  last  ten  years,  too  many 
notable  instances  of  falls  from  virtue  among  the  clergy; 
arid  every  fall  has  been  like  an  avalanche.  They  come 
from  a  point  so  near  to  heaven,  and  fall  so  far,  that 
mountain-sides  are  scarred  and  whole  communities 
whelmed  by  the  calamity.  It  takes,  often,  many  years 
for  the  villages  that  lie  at  their  feet  to  smile  again. 
All  Christendom  feels  the  shock,  and  mourns  with 
downcast  eyes  the  consequences.  I  freely  grant  that, 
as  a  class,  the  American  clergy,  of  all  denominations, 


246  Leffons  in  Life. 

are  the  purest  and  best  men  whom  I  know ;  but  I  can- 
not resist  the  conviction  that  there  are  many  of  them 
who  forget  what  the  responsibility  is  that  rests  upon 
them.  It  was  the  remark  of  an  aged  clergyman,  re- 
tired from  pulpit  duties,  that  if  he  were  a  layman  he 
should  watch  with  more  anxiety  and  carefulness  than 
laymen  do  the  relations  that  exist  between  pastors  and 
the  women  of  their  flock.  I  do  not  understand  this  as 
a  statement  that  there  is  any  general  looseness  of  con- 
duct among  the  clergy  at  all ;  but  as  one  which  covers 
a  kind  of  impropriety  for  which  there  is  no  name  and 
no  punishment;  There  are  women  whose  affection  for 
their  husbands  is  uprooted  through  their  intercourse 
with  their  pastors.  There  shall  never  be  an  improper 
word  spoken ;  there  shall  never  be  a  deed  committed 
that  would  bring  a  blush  to  the  most  sensitive  cheek ; 
yet  a  susceptible  woman  in  the  society  of  a  minister  of 
strong  and  magnetic  sympathies,  may  become  as  passive 
as  a  babe.  Led  toward  him  by  her  religious  nature, 
attracted  and  held  by  his  intellectual  power  and  the 
graces  of  his  language,  yielding  to  him  her  confidence, 
it  is  not  strange  that,  before  she  is  aware,  she  is  a  cap- 
tive without  a  captor,  a  victim  without  an  enemy,  a 
wreck  without  a  destroyer. 

Now  I  know  that  there  is  not  a  pastor  of  a  strong 
and  graceful  and  sympathetic  nature  who  reads  these 
words  without  understanding  what  I  mean — Avho  does 


Faith  in  Humanity.  247 

not  know  that  there  are  women  in  his  congregation 
who  are,  either  consciously  or  unconsciously,  the  slaves 
of  his  will.  I  have  no  doubt  that  there  are  some  such 
pastors  who  will  read  this  essay  with  a  flush  of  guilt 
upon  their  faces.  They  have  never  meant  these  women 
any  ill — they  would  not  harm  them  for  the  world — but 
they  are  conscious  of  a  selfish  and  most  unchristianly 
pleasure  in  these  conquests  of  female  natures — these 
parlor  triumphs,  God  forgive  them !  Perhaps  they  go 
further,  and,  by  the  lingering,  fervent  pressure  of  a 
hand,  or  the  glance  of  an  eye,  or  the  utterance  of  some 
bit  of  gallantry  or  flattery,  send  into  a  woman's  heart 
an  unwomanly  and  an  unchristian  thought.  Perhaps 
they  take  special  delight  in  the  society  of  some  half  a 
dozen  female  members  of  their  flock,  and  find  them- 
selves dressing  for  them — betraying  to  them  their 
weaknesses — opening,  in  various  ways,  avenues  by 
which  the  quick  eyes  and  instincts  of  these  women-can 
see  directly  into  them.  The  number  of  pastors  is  not 
small,  I  think,  who  are  not  aware  that  there  is  one 
woman,  or  that  there  are  some  women,  who  know 
more  of  what  is  in  them,  to  their  disadvantage,  than 
any  man, — that  before  certain  lenient — possibly  sad  and 
forgiving  eyes — they  stand  as  men  who  indulge  in  es- 
sentially unchristian  vanities  of  purpose  and  life. 

Of  all  woman-killers  in  this  world,  I  know  of  none 
so  disgusting  as  one  whose  chosen  profession  it  is  to 


248  Leffons  in  Life. 

preach  the  Gospel  of  Jesus  Christ.  A  clerical  fop,  a 
ministerial  gallant,  a  man  who  preaches  the  love  of 
God  on  Sunday,  and  lays  snares  for  an  innocent  heart 
on  Monday  afternoon,  is  a  disgrace  to  Christianity,  and 
a  sad  burden  to  the  Christian  cause.  Does  such  a  man 
think  that  he  can  add  a  little  zest  to  a  leisure  hour  and 
a  humdrum  life,  by  toying  with  a  tender  friendship, 
and  giving  lease  and  latitude  to  his  desire  for  personal 
conquest,  and  yet  that  no  one  shall  know  it  ?  Ah,  the 
fallacy  !  I  know  of  eminent  clergymen — earnest  work- 
ers— who,  by  yielding  to  this  desire  once,  have  been 
shorn  of  their  power  for  good  forever,  so  far  as  those 
are  concerned  who  really  know  them  and.  their  Aveak- 
ness.  There  are  ministers  in  America  before  whom 
strong  men  tremble,  and  great  congregations  bow  them- 
selves, who  could  be  laughed  to  scorn  and  smothered 
in  a  cloud  of  blushes,  by  some  girl  to  whom,  in  a  weak 
moment,  they  betrayed  the  vain  heart  that  beats  within 
them.  Ah !  ye  men  of  the  black  coat  and  the  white 
neck-cloth, — toying  with  women,  under  whatever  dis- 
guise ;  indulging  in  the  vanity  of  personal  power,  how- 
ever ingeniously  you  mask  it,  is  not  for  you.  You  can 
never  do  it  without  an  injury  to  the  religion  which  you 
profess  to  preach.  If  you  find  that  you  are  too  weak 
to  resist  these  temptations — and  they  are  great  to  su.ch 
as  you — then  you  should  leave  the  desk  forever.  You, 
at  least,  are  bound  in  personal  honor  to  quit  the  pub- 


Faith  in  Humanity.  249 

lie  advocacy  of  a  cause  which  your  private  life '  dis- 
honors. 

Easy  to  preach,  you  say  ?  Easier  to  preach  than 
practise  ?  Nobody  knows  it  better  than  I — unless  it 
be  you.  I  do  not  expect  perfection  in  this  world,  of 
anybody ; — I  do  not  expect  impossibilities  of  anybody. 
But  there  are  certain  duties  which  men  owe  to  human- 
ity and  their  race,  and  which  members  of  Christian 
churches  and  teachers  of  Christian  churches  owe  to 
Christianity  and  to  their  brotherhood,  which  are  pos- 
sible to  be  performed,  and  which  I  insist  upon.  I  do 
not  appeal  to  the  highest  motives — at  least  I  do  not 
appeal  to  religious  motives.  I  appeal  to  personal  honor. 
I  say  that  e.very  man,  high  or  low,  is  bound  in  honor  so 
to  conduct  himself  as  not  to  disgrace  humanity — as  not 
to  shake  the  confidence  of  men  in  .human  honor.  I 
say  that  every  man  who  belongs  to  a  Christian  church 
— no  matter  what  his  internal  life  may  be — is  bound  in 
honor  so  to  carry  himself  before  men  and  women,  that 
the  Christian  name  receive  no  damage  and  the  Chris- 
tian cause  no  prejudice  in  their  eyes..  Every  man  car- 
ries the  burden  of  his  race  and  his  brotherhood ;  and 
if  he  be  a  man,  he  will  neither  ignore  it  nor  try  to 
shake  it  off 

11* 


LESSON  XVIII. 

SORE   SPOTS    AND   SENSITIVE    SPOTS. 

"  Canst  tbou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased; 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow; 
Baze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain  ?  " 
SHA.KSPEEE. 

"  I  have  gnashed 

My  teeth  in  darkness  till  returning  morn, 
Then  cursed  myself  till  sunset ;  I  have  prayed 
For  madness  as  a  blessing  ;  'tis  denied  me." 

BYRON. 

Alexandra.    Methinks  thou  hast  a  singular  way  of  showing 
Thy  happiness! — what  ails  thee,  cousin  of  mine? 
"Why  didst  thou  sigh  so  deeply  ? 

"  Caatiglione.    Did  I  sigh  ? 
I  was  not  conscious  of  it.    It  is  a  fashion, 
A  silly — a  most  silly  fashion  I  have 
When  I  am  very  happy.    Did  I  sigh  ?  "  POE. 

THERE  is  a  hill  opposite  to  ray  window,  up  which, 
during  all  the  long  and  weary  day,  horses  are 
drawing  heavy  loads.     The  majority  of  them  crawl 
patiently  along,  with  their  heads  down  and  with  reek- 
ing flanks  and  shoulders,  pausing  occasionally  as  the 


Sore  Spots  and  Senfitive  Spots.         251 

water- bars  brace  the  wheels,  and  impatient  only  with 
the  flies  that  vex  their  ears,  and  the  insufficiency  of 
their  short  and  stumpy  tails  to  protect  their  quivering 
sides.  Some  of  these  animals  are  not  so  patient,  but 
are  nervous  and  spasmodic  and  unhappy.  I  have  no- 
ticed one  among  them  particularly,  that  has  a  very  bad 
time  every  morning  with  his  first  load.  He  is  what  the 
teamsters  call  "  balky,"  though  evidently  an  excellent 
horse.  Much  coaxing  and  not  a  little  whipping  seem 
necessary  to  get  him  started  ;  and  then  he  plunges 
into  his  work  as  if  he  were  determined  to  tear  his  har- 
ness and  his  load  all  in  pieces.  I  notice  that  there  are 
certain  unusual  fixtures  about  his  collar,  and  learn  that 
the  poor  animal  has  a  galled  shoulder,  so  raw  and  in- 
flamed that  all  his  first  efforts  in  the  morning  are  at- 
tended by  pain,  and  that  he  only  works  well  after  the 
flesh  has  become  benumbed  by  pressure.  I  ask  his 
driver  why  he  does  not  turn  the  creature  into  the  pas- 
ture, and  let  the  ulcer  heal,  and  ana  told  that  he  has 
been  treated  thus  repeatedly,  but  that  it  always  returns 
when  labor  is  resumed.  There  is  a  livery  stable  that  I 
visit  frequently ;  and  while  I  wait  to  be  served  I  notice 
what  the  grooms  are  doing.  I  see  that  when  the  curry- 
comb or  brush  touches  a  certain  spot  upon  the  horse's 
skin  there  is  a  cringe,  and  usually  a  kick  and  a  squeal, 
— possibly  a  harmless  nip  at  the  groom's  shoulder.  I 
learn,  too,  that  there  is  a  certain  place  upon  the  back 


252  Leffons  in  Life. 

of  every  horse  that  the  grooms  are  not  permitted  to 
bathe  with  cold  water. 

These  sore  spots  and  tender  spots  and  sensitive 
spots  on  horses  have  very  faithful  counterparts  in  the 
minds  and  characters  of  men.  I  do  not  know  that  I 
ever  met  a  man  who  had  not  on  him,  somewhere,  a 
sore  spot,  or  a  tender  spot,  or  a  sensitive  spot — a  spot 
that  would  either  gall  under  the  collar  of  labor,  or 
bring  on  hysterics  if  harshly  rubbed,  or  communicate 
a  damaging  shock  to  the  nervous  system  when  suddenly 
cooled.  Very  few  men  arrive  at  thirty-five  years  of 
age  without  getting  galled,  and  very  few  entirely  re- 
cover from  the  abrasion  while  they  live.  The  spot 
never  thoroughly  heals,  and  the  old  collar  only  needs 
to  be  put  on,  even  after  the  longest  period  of  rest,  to 
develop  the  ulcer  in  the  same  old  place.  I  heard  a 
young  clergyman  preach  recently,  and  I  instantly 
learned  that  he  had  a  sore  spot  under  his  collar.  He 
was  a  young  man  of  fine  powers,  bold  intellect,  a  strong 
love  of  freedom,  and  a  will  determined  to  do  honor  to 
his  convictions.  He  had  formed  his  own  opinion  upon 
certain  points  of  doctrine,  and  had  insisted  upon  it  in 
the  presence  of  his  elders.  The  consequence  was  that 
he  had  been  bitterly  opposed,  and  was  with  great  diffi- 
culty settled  over  his  parish.  The  screws  had  been 
put  tightly  down  upon  him,  and  he  had  felt,  in  the 
very  depths  of  his  sensitive  soul,  that  the  liberty  where- 


Sore  Spots  and  Senfitive  Spots.         253 

with  Christ  had  made  him  free  had  been  tampered 
with.  So  he  could  neither  pray  nor  preach  without 
showing  that  he  had  a  sore  spot  on  him.  He  did  not 
betray  it  by  refusing  to  draw  at  all ;  but  he  drew  vio- 
lently, as  if  he  had  been  hitched  to  the  leg  of  an  obtuse 
Doctor  of  Divinity,  and  intended  to  give  all  the  other 
Doctors  of  Divinity  notice  to  get  out  of  the  way. 
Now  that  sore  spot  on  that  young  man's  shoulder  is 
sure  to  color  all  his  efforts  from  this  time  henceforth, 
until  he  puts  on  another  kind  of  collar.  The  same  old 
sting  will  be  in  all  his  preaching — a  tinge  of  personal 
feeling — that  the  masses  of  those  who  hear  him  preach 
will  not  understand,  and  that  he,  at  last,  will  become 
unconscious  of.  Ministers  have  more  sore  places  under 
their  harnesses  than  any  class  of  men  I  know  of. 

A  minister  who  has  adopted  unpopular  views,  and, 
in  his  advocacy  of  them,  has  rubbed  against  the  fixed 
opinions  or  prejudices  of  the  people  to  which  he  is 
called  to  preach,  is  very  sure  to  get  sore  ;  and  he  will 
either  wince  with  the  friction  or  oppose  himself  to  it 
with  violence.  His  soreness  will  always  be  calling  at- 
tention to  that  which  caused  it,  so  that  if  his  wound 
was  procured  in  the  advocacy  of  some  infernal  doctrine 
like  "  infant  damnation,"  why,  infant  damnation  will 
seem  to  become  a  very  precious  doctrine  to  him,  and 
he  will  always  be  talking  about  it,  and  enforcing  it. 
If  he  has  preached  against  slavery,  or  intemperance,  or 


254  Leffons  in  Life. 

any  other  public  wrong  or  popular  vice,  and  been 
fiercely  and  persistently  opposed  by  any  portion  of  his 
charge,  he  will  betray  the  sore  under  his  collar  on  all 
occasions,  and  very  possibly  become  so  fractious  and 
violent  that  his  flock  will  be  obliged  to  turn  him  out  to 
pasture.  A  minister  who  gets  sore  under  the  friction 
of  any  particular  collar  seems  to  feel  that  it  is  neces- 
sary for  him  to  wear  that  particular  collar  all  the  time ; 
and  he  fails  to  remember  that  the  reason  why  he  has 
so  much  feeling  with  this  collar  on,  is  that  it  has 
made  him  sore.  Not  unfrequently  he  becomes  so 
sensitive  and  so  nervous  that  he  kicks  out  of  the  traces, 
and  runs  away  with,  and  smashes  up,  the  vehicle  to 
which  he  is  attached. 

No  small  degree  of  the  sourness  and  bitterness  and 
violence  of  the  advocates  of  special  reforms  comes  from 
wearing  too  long  the  collar  of  the  public  apathy,  or  the 
public  contempt.  The  men  are  very  few,  who,  with 
the  consciousness  of  being  actuated  by  a  good  motive, 
can  work  against  opposition  a  long  time,  without  get- 
ting sore,  and  without  betraying  their  soreness,  either 
by  stubbornness  or  violence.  Touch  them  anywhere 
but  upon  the  galled  spot,  and  they  will  be  as  calm  as 
clocks,  and  as  good-natured  as  kittens;  touch  them 
there,  and  we  are  sure  to  get  a  kick  and  a  squeal,  and 
a  nip  at  the  shoulder.  Heartless  practical  jokers  un- 
derstand where  "  the  raw  "  is,  and  know  exactly  what 


Sore  Spots  and  Senfitive  Spots.        255 

to  say  to  provoke  a  galled  man  to  make  a  fool  of  him- 
self. 

The  conscience  is  very  liable  to  become  sore  with 
friction.  One  entire  section  of  the  American  nation 
became  sore,  even  to  madness,  with  working  in  the 
collar  of  the  world's  condemnation.  The  slave  States 
of  America  were  very  comfortable  with  slavery  so  long 
as  they  could  hold  it  with  self-respect,  and  so  long  as 
the  world  regarded  them  rather  with  sympathy  and  pity 
than  with  condemnation.  As  the  popular  opinion 
against  slavery  strengthened  and  became  intensified, 
both  in  this  and  other  countries,  they  became  sore  and 
sensitive.  First,  they  tucked  a  constitutional  rag  be- 
tween the  collar  and  the  skin  ;  and  as  that  did  not  seem 
to  relieve  them,  they  lined  it  with  leaves  from  human 
philosophy;  and  philosophy  soon  wearing  out,  they 
tore  their  Bibles  into  pieces  for  materials  with  which 
to  soften  the  cushion,  and  set  the  Christian  church  to 
making  padding.  Every  thing  failing  to  produce  the 
desired  result,  and  relieve  them  of  their  pain,  they  re- 
fused to  draw  their  portion  of  the  national  load,  kicked 
the  Union  in  pieces,  and  ran  away.  They  will  never 
be  happy  again  until  slavery  is  abolished,  or  the  atti- 
tude of  the  nation  and  of  the  world  towards  slavery  is 
changed.  This  sore  under  the  collar  will  never  heal, 
either  in  or  out  of  the  Union,  until  the  cause  shall  in 
some  way  be  removed. 


256  Leffons  in  Life. 

It  is  the  same  with  individuals  as  with  peoples.  A 
man  cannot  long  wear  a  collar  that  presses  upon  his 
conscience,  without  getting  through  the  skin — down 
upon  the  raw.  When  a  man  who  sells  liquor  to  his 
neighbors  for  drink,  voluntarily  apologizes  to  me  for 
it,  or  justifies  himself  in  it,  I  know  very  well  that  his 
conscience  has  a  raw  place  upon  it,  and  that  it  gives 
him  trouble.  When  a  woman  takes  particular  pains  to 
tell  me  that  she  is  exceedingly  economical,  and  that 
she  really  has  had  nothing  for  a  year,  I  cannot  but 
conclude  that  she  has  been  making  some  expenditure, 
or  some  series  of  expenditures,  that  she  knows  she  can- 
not afford,  and  that  there  is  a  raw  place  upon  her  con- 
science in  consequence.  In  truth,  I  have  never  known 
a  woman  who  wished  to  impress  me  with  a  sense  of  her 
rigid  economy,  who  was  not  more  anxious  to  convince 
herself  of  it  than  me.  When  a  man  undertakes  to 
soften  the  character  of  any  crime  by  apologies,  and  by 
arguments,  it  is  invariably  for  the  purpose  of  relieving 
its  pressure  upon  a  galled  conscience,  or  shaping  it  to 
a  different  place.  I  am  afraid  the  men  are  few  who 
have  escaped  a  galled  spot  upon  their  consciences. 

Pride  has  had  a  terrible  time  of  it  in  the  world.  It 
is,  perhaps,  the  most  sensitive  spot  in  human  nature. 
Collars,  curry-combs,  and  cold  water  have  alike  served 
to  torment  it.  A  great  multitude  of  men  and  women 
have  been  obliged  to  work  in  the  coUar  of  poverty, 


Sore  Spots  and  Senlitive  Spots.         257 

>  ' 

against  a  galled   pride,  during  all  their   life.     They 

never  start  in  the  morning  without  flinching,  and  never 
work  without  violence,  until  their  prid«  has  become 
entirely  benumbed  by  pressure.  Ah !  if  society  could 
be  unveiled,  how  few  would  be  found  with  pride  free 
from  scars  and  raw  places !  I  once  heard  a  simple  boy 
tell  a  young  man  that  his  legs  were  crooked;  and 
though  the  lad  was  very  innocent,  and  only  supposed 
that  he  had  made  and  announced  a  pleasant  discovery, 
he  had,  alas !  hit  the  man's  pride  on  the  very  centre  of 
its  soreness  and  sensitiveness.  One  never  knows,  hi 
large  things,  Avhere  he  will  hit  the  sensitive  places  in 
the  pride  of  those  he  meets ;  but  in  little  things  he  is 
pretty  sure  to  learn  it  concerning  everybody.  It  is 
always  safe  to  suppose  that  a  very  small  man  is  sore  on 
the  subject  of  bodily  dimensions.  It  will  never  do  for 
a  tall  man  to  propose  to  measure  altitude  with  him  in 
the  presence  of  women.  It  is  never  safe  to  inquire  the 
age  of  any  lady  whom  one  knows  to  be  more  than 
twenty-five  years  old.  There  is  not  one  man  or  woman 
in  a  hundred  who  possesses  an  unpleasant  personal  pe- 
culiarity, without  getting  a  galled  spot  upon  personal 
pride  in  consequence.  A  long  nose,  a  squint  eye,  a 
clumsy  foot,  a  low  forehead,  a  hump  in  the  back — any 
one  of  these  will  not  bear  mention  in  the  presence  of 
its  possessor. 

It  is  quite  amusing  to  witness  the  various  methods 


258  Leffons  in  Life. 

resorted  to  for  cheating  the  world  with  regard  to  these 
sore  places  in  personal  pride.  Men  who  are  conscious 
that  they  do  not  possess  a  particle  of  musical  taste,  and 
are  really  ignorant  of  the  difference  between  Dundee 
and  Yankee  Doodle,  will  profess  to  be  "  very  fond  of 
music,"  and  will  not  unfrequently  convince  themselves 
that  they  are  so.  Men  who  are  exceedingly  sensitive 
touching  any  eccentricities  of  person,  will  be  constantly 
joking  about  their  own  long  noses,  or  red  hair,  or  big 
feet,  and  run  on  about  them  in  the  pleasantest  sort  of 
way,  and  persist  in  doing  it  on  all  occasions,  as  if  the 
matter  were  exceedingly  amusing  to  them,  when  the 
fact  is  that  their  pride  is  very  sore  in  that  particular 
spot.  A  woman  who  has  passed  her  hour  of  bloom, 
and  feels  with  sensitive  pain  the  creeping  on  of  ancient 
maidenhood,  will  talk  charmingly,  and  with  superflu- 
ous iteration,  about  the  usefulness  of  old  maids,  and 
the  independence  of  their  lot — determined  to  cover  up 
the  galled  spot  that  burns  upon  the  surface  of  her  per- 
sonal pride.  The  trick  of  keeping  up  the  appearances 
of  wealth,  after  wealth  is  departed,  is  a  familiar  one  ; 
and  though  it  rarely  deceives,  it  is  likely  to  be  persisted 
in  to  the  end  of  time.  It  is  often  very  pitiful  to  wit- 
ness the  ingenuity  of  the  efforts  that  are  made  to  cover 
from  public  observation  the  soreness  of  personal  pride, 
caused  by  a  change  of  circumstances.  The  Hepsibah 
Pynchons  abound  in  houses  of  less  than  seven  gables. 


Sore  Spots  and  Senfitive  Spots.        259 

There  is  probably  no  harness  so  apt  to  gall  the 
shoulder  of  personal  pride  as  that  of  ambition.  The 
number  of  men  in  the  world  whose  personal  pride  has 
a  sore  on  it,  inflicted  by  disappointed  ambition,  is  sadly 
large.  I  have  seen  many  a  worthy  man  utterly  spoiled 
by  his  failure  to  reach  the  political,  social,  or  literary 
eminence  at  which  he  has  aimed.  Thenceforward  his 
hand  has  been  against  every  man,  and  he  has  imagined 
that  every  man's  hand  has  been  against  him.  All  who 
contributed  to  his  defeat,  and  all  in  any  way  associated 
with  them,  have  become  the  subjects  of  his  hatred  and 
his  animadvei'sion.  He  has  retired  into  himself,  sneer- 
ing at  every  thing  and  everybody,  doubtful  of  the  sin- 
cerity of  all  friendly  professions,  and  regarding  himself 
as  "a  passenger,"  while  the  poor  fools  among  whom 
he  once  so  gladly  numbered  himself,  chase  the  baubles 
by  which  his  life  has  been  so  miserably  cheated  of  its 
meed.  It  is  very  hard  for  a  proud  man,  with  a  strong 
will,  to  feel  that  he  has  been  baffled  and  beaten ;  and  a 
really  noble  man,  defeated  in  his  objects  by  trickery 
and  meanness,  will  sometimes  become  half  insane  with 
the  wound  which  his  pride  has  received.  He  will  never 
forget  it ;  and  the  old  sore  can  never  be  touched,  even 
in  the  most  accidental  way,  without  calling  the  fire  into 
his  eye,  and  the  color  into  his  cheek.  In  the  domain 
of  politics,  "  sore  heads "  notoriously  abound,  and  I 
suppose  they  always  will. 


260  Leffons  in  Life. 

Literary  life  is  probably  as  prolific  of  failures,  and  as 
full  of  "  sore  heads  "  as  political.  The  number  of  men 
and  women  who  are  ambitious  of  literary  distinction,  and 
who  make  great  efforts  to  win  it,  is  very  large — larger 
than  the  world  outside  of  the  publisher's  private  office 
dreams  of.  The  number  of  manuscripts  rejected  and 
never  published  is  greater  than  the  number  published; 
and  of  those  which  are  published,  not  one  in  ten  satis- 
fies, in  its  success,  the  ambition  of  its  author.  I  sup- 
pose that  it  is  within  the  bounds  of  truth  to  say  that 
nine  authors  in  every  ten  are  disappointed  men — men 
whose  personal  pride  is  wounded,  who  believe  that  the 
world  has  treated  them  unjustly,  and  who  cherish  a 
sore  spot  on  their  personal  pride  as  long  as  they  live. 
Some  of  these  refuse  to  draw  in  any  harness,  and  give 
themselves  up  to  poverty  and  laziness,  as  the  victims 
of  the  world's  undiscriminating  stupidity.  Some  be- 
come critics  of  the  works  of  successful  authors,  and 
take  their  revenge  in  the  hearty  abuse  of  their  betters. 
Others  enter  into  other  departments  of  effort,  but  carry 
with  them  through  life  the  belief  that  they  are  out  of 
their  place,  and  the  conviction  that  if  they  had  been 
born  in  a  nobler  age  they  would  have  been  recognized 
as.the  geniuses  they  imagine  themselves  to  be. 

There  is  still  another  class  which  get  sore  with 
drawing  in  a  harness  that  God  puts  upon  them,  and  in 
the  adoption  of  which  they  have  had  nothing  to  do. 


Sore  Spots  and  Seniitive  Spots.         261 

A  man  of  poetic  sensibilities  finds  himself  engaged  in 
the  pursuit  of  some  humdrum  calling.  He  sees  how 
beautiful  poetry  is ;  he  feels  its  influence  upon  his  soul ; 
but  he  has  no  power  to  create  it.  Another  feels  some- 
thing of  the  divinity  of  music,  but  muscular  facility  has 
been  denied  to  him  so  that  he  cannot  play,  and  his 
voice  is  harsh  or  feeble  so  that  he  cannot  sing.  He 
melts  and  glows  under  the  sway  of  eloquence,  and  wor- 
ships at  a  distance  the  power  of  the  orator  over  the 
hearts  and  minds  of  men ;  but  he  knows  that  if  he  were 
in  the  orator's  place,  he  would  break  down  and  become 
the  object  even  of  his  own  contempt.  Great  suscepti- 
bilities-these  people  have — passive  spirits — open  to  all 
good  impressions,  appreciative  of  that  which  is  best  in 
nature  and  art,  yet  without  the  power  to  act.  They 
must  always  be  plates  to  receive  the  picture,  and  never 
suns  and  cameras  to  imprint  it.  They  must  always  live 
within  sight  of  great  and  beautiful  powers,  but  never 
have  the  privilege  of  wielding  them.  Doomed  to  the 
attitude  of  receptivity,  they  see  that  they  can  never 
change  it ;  and  that  they  can  never  be  to  others  what 
others  are  to  them.  Thus  they  grow  sore  with  the 
thought  of  their  weakness,  and  a  sense  of  the  circum- 
scription of  their  faculties.  They  see  wonderful  things 
— they  apprehend  the  grace  and  the  glory  of  great  ac- 
tions— but  they  can  achieve  nothing.  Many  of  these 
walk  as  in  a  dream  through  life — with  a  sense  of  wings 


262  Leffons  in  Life. 

upon  their  shoulders,  clipped  or  lashed  down.  They 
see  their  companions  rising,  but  they  cling  to  the  earth, 
and  feel  the  difference  as  a  humiliation.  Alas!  how 
many  souls  chafe  against  the  consciousness  of  inferior 
powers,  till  even  the  fine  susceptibilities  with  which 
nature  endowed  them  are  destroyed ! 

There  would  seem  to  be  no  end  of  the  causes  which 
produce  sore  and  tender  and  sensitive  spots  upon  the 
human  soul.  I  have  said  nothing  of  grief  and  love 
and  pity  and  anger,  and  a  whole  brood  of  powerful 
passions,  but  they  are  all  operative  toward  the  results 
which  we  are  discussing.  The  cure  for  these  sensitive 
sores  is  obvious  enough.  I  would  prescribe  for  a 
man  as  I  would  for  a  horse — go  out  to  pasture,  or 
adopt  another  kind  of  collar,  and  never  wear  the  old 
one  again.  If  a  man  has  become  sore  by  working 
against  the  apathy,  the  misconceptions,  the  miscon- 
structions, and  the  prejudices  of  the  world,  so  that  he 
feels  the  galling  burden  of  the  collar  in  all  his  actions, 
let  him  change  his  style  of  labor  until  the  ulcer  heal. 
If  the  conscience  becomes  sore,  relieve  it  of  that  which 
made  it  sore,  and  never  believe  that  padding  can  effect 
a  cure.  Even  wounded  pride  will  heal  if  we  let  it 
alone,  and  refrain  from  opening  the  wound  on  all  occa- 
sions, and  rubbing  it  against  the  causes  which  inflicted 
it.  All  the  natural  peculiarities  of  our  constitution 
which  wound  our  pride  may  be  happily  got  along  with 


Sore  Spots  and  Senfitive  Spots.         263 

by  ignoring  them.  If  my  neighbor  is  •  a  lovable  man, 
I  do  not  love  him  any  the  less  because  he  wears  a  long 
nose,  and  I  should  never  think  of  it  if  he  were  not  al- 
ways joking  about  it,  and  trying  to  convince  me  that 
it  did  not  offend  him.  A  man  who  quarrels  with  his 
own  constitution,  and  questions  the  benevolence  that 
adjusted  it  to  its  conditions,  quarrels  with,  and  ques- 
tions, his  Maker.  I  believe  there  are  no  sorenesses  of 
the  sort  we  are  considering  which  time  or  change  will 
not  heal. 

It  seems  to  me  a  very  melancholy  thing  for  a  man 
to  carry  a  mental  ulcer  with  him  through  life — to  feel 
its  prick  and  pang  in  every  effort — to  be  conscious  of 
its  presence  every  hour — to  be  engaged  in  covering  it 
from  sight,  or  in  the  attempt  to  deceive  the  world  with 
regard  to  it.  Life  is  altogether  too  good  a  thing  to 
be  spoiled  by  a  little  sore,  or  a  large  one,  when  there 
exists  an  obvious  mode  of  cure.  It  is  our  immense  and 
intense  self-consciousness  that  stands  in  our  way  always 
in  this  matter.  The  truth  is  that  the  world  does  not 
think  half  so  much  about  us  as  we  imagine  it  does.  A 
man  may  walk  through  the  city  of  New  York  with  a 
face  "  as  homely  as  a  hedge-fence,"  thinking  about  it 
all  the  time,  and  wondering  what  people  think  of  it, 
and  not  a  man  of  all  the  throng  will  even  see  it.  It  is 
so  in  the  world  at  large.  Our  personal  peculiarities, 
our  personal  failures,  our  personal  weaknesses,  our  per- 


264  Leffons  in  Life. 

sonal  affairs  generally  possess  very  little  interest  for 
others.  They  have  enough  to  do  in  taking  care  of 
themselves,  and  have  weaknesses,  and  failures,  and  pe- 
culiarities enough  of  their  own ;  and  if  the  world  should 
spurn  our  well-meant  efforts  in  its  behalf,  why,  let  it 
go.  It  mends  nothing  to  get  sore  and  sensitive  over 
it.  When  a  man  truly  learns  how  little  important  he 
is  in  the  world,  he  is  generally  beyond  the  danger  of 
becoming  galled  by  his  harness,  whatever  it  may  be. 


LESSON   XIX. 

THE    INFLUENCE   OF    PRAISE. 

"Now  I  praise  you,  brethren,  that  ye  remember  me  in  all  things,  and  keep 
the  ordinances  as  I  delivered  them  unto  you." — ST.  PAUL. 

"  O  popular  applause  I    What  heart  of  man 
Is  proof  against  thy  sweet  seducing  charms  ?  " 
COWPEK. 

"  Arbaces.    \Vhy  now,  you  flatter. 
"Mardonius.    I  never  understood  the  word." 
A  KING  AND  NO  KIN<J. 

"  Praising  what  is  lost 
Makes  the  remembrance  dear." 
SHAKSPEEE. 

IT  is  pleasant  to  be  praised.     The  man  does  not  live 
who  is  insensible  to  honest  praise.     The  love  of  ap- 
probation is  as  natural  to  every  human  soul  as  the  love 
of  offspring,  or  the  love  of  liberty.     It  was  planted 
there  by  God's  hand,  and  it  is  as  useful  and  important 
in  its  fruit,  as  it  is  fragrant  and  beautiful  in  its  flower. 
I  repeat  that  the  man  does  not  live  who  is  insensible  to 
honest  praise,     That  great  orator  who  seems  to  be  a 
12 


266  Leffons  in  Life. 

king  in  the  world,  independent  of  his  race,  holding  do- 
minion over  human  hearts,  lilted  far  above  the  neces- 
sity of  the  plaudits  of  those  around  him,  will  pause 
with  gratified  and  grateful  ear,  to  listen  to  expressions 
of  approval  and  admiration  from  the  humblest  lips. 
The  greatest  mind  drinks  praise  as  a  pleasant  draught, 
if  it  be  honest  and  deserved.  Perhaps  you  think  that 
Doctor  of  Divinity  who  weighs  two  hundred  pounds 
more  or  less,  and  is  clad  in  glossy  broad-cloth,  and  lifts 
his  shining  forehead  above  a  white  cravat,  as  Mont 
Blanc  pierces  a  belt  of  cloud,  and  talks  articulated 
thunder,  and  veils  his  wisdom  behind  gold-mounted 
spectacles,  and  moves  among  men  with  ineffable  dig- 
nity, is  above  the  need  of,  and  the  appetite  for,  praise. 
Ah !  you  don't  know  the  soft  old  heart  under  that 
satin  waistcoat !  It  can  be  made  as  warm  and  gentle 
and  grateful,  with  just  and  generous  praise,  as  that  of 
a  boy.  Nay,  the  barber  who  takes  his  reverent  nose 
between  his  thumb  and  finger,  and  sweeps  the  beard 
from  his  benevolent  chin,  understands  exactly  what  to 
say  in  order  to  draw  from  his  pocket  an  extra  sixpence. 
There  is  no  head  so  high,  there  is  no  neck  so  stiff,  there 
is  no  back  so  straight,  that  it  will  not  bend  to  take  the 
flowers  which  praise  tosses  upon  its  path. 

"  It's  a  sign  of  weakness,  after  all,"  sighs  my  friend, 
who  is  not  praised  quite  as  much  as  he  would  like  to 
be.  Begging  your  pardon,  sir,  it  is  no  such  thing. 


The  Influence  of  Praiie.  267 

The  strongest  Being  in  the  universe — the  God  of  the 
universe — is  the  one  who  demands,  receives,  and  ac- 
cepts the  most  praise.  Listen  for  a  moment  to  those 
marvellous  ascriptions  which  rise  to  Him  from  the  bo- 
som of  Christendom  as  ceaselessly  and  beautifully  as 
clouds  from  the  Heaven-reflecting  ocean:  "Thou  art 
the  King,  immortal,  invisible.  Thou  art  the  Source 
of  all  life,  the  Author  of  all  being,  the  Fountain  of  all 
light  and  love  and  joy.  Thou  art  Love  itself;  Thou 
art  the  Sum  of  all  perfections.  For  what  Thou  art,  we 
worship  Thee;  for  what  Thou  hast  done  for  us,  in  Thy 
infinite  loving-kindness,  we  praise  Thee.  We  bless 
Thy  Holy  Name.  We  call  upon  our  souls  and  all 
within  us  to  magnify  Thy  name  forever  and  ever." 
The  Bible  itself  has  given  us  almost  numberless  forms 
of  expression  into  which  we  may  cast  our  divinest  ado- 
ration, and  the  broadest  outpourings  of  our  hearts. 
The  poets  of  all  ages  have  been  touched  to  their  finest 
utterances  in  the  rapture  of  worship  and  of  praise. 

Now  why  should  God  want  praise  of  us  ?  It  cer- 
tainly is  not  because  He  is  weak.  Can  it  be  because 
He  wishes  by  means  of  it  to  produce  some  desired 
effect  in  us?  Is  there  no  hearing  of  this  praise  in 
Heaven?  Are  we  who  sing  and  shout  mere  brawlers, 
who  get  a  little  strength  of  lungs  by  the  exercise? 
There  are  some  poor  souls,  doubtless,  who  believe  this, 
as  they  believe  that  prayer  has  significance  only  as  a 


268  Leflbns  in  Life. 

moral  exercise,  and  effect  only  as  it  reacts  upon  the 
soul.  I  believe  that  praise  is  pleasant  to  Him  who  sits 
upon  the  throne — that  the  honest  and  sincere  expres- 
sions of  love  and  adoration,  and  gratitude  and  praise, 
that  rise  to  Him  from  the  earth  are  at  least  shining  rip- 
ples upon  the  soundless  ocean  of  His  bliss.  Out  from 
Him  proceed,  through  myriad  channels  of  effluence,  the 
expressions  of  His  love  for  those  whom  He  has  made 
and  endowed  with  intelligence ;  and  I  believe  that  it  is 
requisite  for  His  happiness  that  back  along  these  lines 
of  manifestation  there  should  flow  a  tide  of  grateful 
recognition  and  adoring  praise.  Even  a  God  would 
pine  in  loneliness  and  despair  if  there  should  come  back 
no  echoes  to  His  loving  voice — no  refluent  wave  to  the 
mighty  bosom  which  makes  all  shores  vocal  with  its 
breath  and  beating.  God  demands  of  all  men  that 
which  all  men  owe  to  Him — that  which  His  perfections 
and  His  acts  deserve. 

This  love  of  approbation  in  men,  then,  is  Heaven- 
born  and  Godlike.  The  desire  for  approbation  is  as 
legitimate  as  the  desire  for  food.  I  do  not  suppose 
that  it  should  be  greatly  a  motive  of  action — perhaps 
it  should  never  be ;  but  when  a  man  from  a  good  mo- 
tive does  a  good  thing,  he  desires  the  approval  of  the 
hearts  that  love  him,  and  he  receives  their  expressions 
of  praise  with  grateful  pleasure.  Nay,  if  these  expres- 
sions of  praise  are  denied  to  him,  he  feels  in  a  certain 


The  Influence  of  Praife.  269 

sense  wronged.  He  feels  that  justice  has  not  been  done 
him — that  there  is  something  due  to  him  that  has 
not  been  paid.  I  met  a  friend  the  other  day  who  un- 
veiled his  heart  to  me ;  and  I  caught  in  the  vision  his 
heart's  sense  of  the  world's  injustice.  He  had  been  a 
very  poor  boy,  and  had  been  bred  under  a  poor  boy's 
disadvantages ;  but  a  strong  will,  a  good  heart,  fine 
talents,  and  a  favoring  fortune,  brought  to  him  gold, 
and  lands,  and  equipage.  They  brought  these  not 
only,  but  they  brought  the  power  to  be  a  benefactor 
of  his  native  town.  He  won  competence  for  himself, 
and  then  he  became  a  public-spirited  citizen,  and  did 
that  for  his  home  which  no  other  man  had  done.  Now 
he  felt  that  he  had  done  for  himself  and  for  those 
around  him  nobly ;  and  it  was  natural  that  he  should 
desire  some  response — some  expression  of  praise.  He 
did  not  get  it.  People  either  envied  him,  or  they  mis- 
construed his  actions ;  and  he  felt  that  his  townsmen 
had  been  and  were  unjust — that  they  owed  him  some- 
thing which  they  had  failed  to  pay. 

The  world  is  so  much  accustomed  to  confound 
praise  with  flattery  that  if  I  were  to  go  to  a  man  with 
an  honest  tribute  like  this :  "  My  friend,  I  admire  you 
very  much ;  I  think  you  possess  noble  talents,  fine 
tastes,  and  an  excellent  heart;  and  I  regard  your 
course  of  action  and  your  life  with  the  warmest  ap- 
proval," he  would,  nine  times  in  ten,  look  into  my  face 


270  Leflbns  in  Life. 

either  with  astonishment,  or  amusement,  or  offense. 
He  would  not  know  whether  I  intended  to  insult  him 
or  to  practice  a  joke  upon  him.  Praise  between  man 
and  man  is  so  rare  that  we  neither  know  how  to  be- 
stow it  nor  how  to  receive  it.  This  is  carried  to  such 
an  extent  that  one-half  of  the  family  life  of  Christen- 
dom is  deprived  of  it.  The  husbands  who  never  have 
a  word  of  praise  for  their  wives,  the  wives  who  never 
have  a  word  of  praise  for  their  husbands,  and  the  par- 
ents who  only  find  fault  with  their  children,  are,  I 
fear,  in  the  majority.  I  know  that  the  women  are 
numberless  who  devote  themselves  throughout  all  their 
life  to  the  comfort,  the  happiness,  and  the  prosperity  of 
their  husbands,  and  who  lie  down  in  their  graves  at 
last,  thirsty  for  their  praise.  Their  patient  and  ceaseless 
ministry  is  taken  as  a  matter  of  course,  without  the 
slightest  recognition  of  its  value  as  the  expression  of  a 
loving  and  devoted  heart.  Now  I  believe  that  praise 
is  due  to  the  love  and  unselfish  devotion  of  a  wife,  just 
as  really  as  it  is  to  the  loving-kindness  and  beneficent 
ministry  of  God,  differing  only  in  kind  a/id  degree. 
Husbands  may  die  worth  millions,  and  leave  it  all  to 
their  wives,  (subject  to  the  usual  contemptible  pro- 
vision that  they  do  not  marry  again,)  and  yet  be 
shamefully  indebted  to  them  forever  and  forev.er. 

Children  are  often   spoiled  because   they  get   no 
credit  for  what  they  do.     Of  censure,  they  get  their 


The  Influence  of  Praiie.  271 

due;  but  of  praise,  never.  They  do  a  thing  which 
they  feel  to  be  praiseworthy,  but  it  is  not  noticed. 
When  a  child  takes  pains  to  do  well,  it  feels  itself  paid 
for  every  endeavor  by  praise ;  and  the  most  unsophis- 
ticated child  knows  when  praise  is  its  due.  It  often 
conies  to  its  mother's  knee  in  natural  simplicity,  and 
asks  for  it.  It  is  very  well  for  men  to  say  that  "  virtue 
is  its  own  reward,"  and  that  the  highest  satisfactions  are 
those  which  spring  from  a  sense  of  duty  accomplished ; 
but  praise  is  pleasant  and  precious  to  men  who  not 
only  say  this,  but  feel  it.  Many  a  noble  and  sensitive 
pastor  is  disheartened  because  no  one  of  the  multitude 
which  he  so  carefully  and  constantly  feeds,  ever  tells 
him,  with  an  open,  honest  utterance,  his  good  opinion  of 
him,  and  his  satisfaction  with  his  labors.  Many  an  excel- 
lent author  toils  over  his  work  in  secret  distrust,  and 
issues  it  in  fear  and  trembling,  feeling  that  a  word  of 
praise  will  exalt  him  into  a  grateful  and  fruitful  joy,  and 
that  an  unjust  and  unkind  criticism  will  half  kill  him. 

It  is  true  that  the  mind  is  unhealthy  which  lives  on 
praise;  and  it  is  just  as  true  that  he  is  mean  and  un- 
just who  fails  to  award  praise  to  those  who  earn  it. 
The  appetite  for  praise  may  become  just  as  morbid 
and  greedy  by  improper  stimulus  and  abuse,  as  any 
other  natural  and  legitimate  appetite.  It  frequently 
does  so,  in  those  who  associate  it  very  intimately  with 
success  and  gain.  Actors  and  public  singers,  and  all 


272  Leffons  in  Life. 


those  whose  success  in  life  and  whose  pecuniary  income 
depend  upon  the  amount  of  popular  praise  they  can 
win,  are  very  apt  to  become  greedy  of  praise,  and  will 
not  unfrequently  receive  it  in  its  most  disgusting  forms. 
There  are  lecturers  and  public  speakers  who  depend 
upon  praise  for  strength  to  speak  an  hour — men  who, 
if  their  performances  are  repetitions,  wait  at  certain 
points  for  applause,  as  a  horse,  travelling  over  a  familiar 
road,  stops  always  at  certain  hills  to  rest  and  take 
breath,  and  at  certain  wayside  cisterns  to  drink.  Many 
of  these  men  demand  praise,  talking  about  themselves 
continually,  and  begging  assent  to  their  self-laudations. 
In  these  cases,  praise  becomes  the  dominant  motive, 
and  degrades  and  belittles  its  subjects  always.  The 
voluntary  profanity  and  the  impure  jests  that  so  often 
offend  the  ears  of  decent  people  at  the  theatre,  are  put 
forth  to  call  out  a  cheer  from  groundlings  whose  praise 
is  always  essential  disgrace.  The  jealousy  and  the 
quarrelsomeness  of  authors,  actors,  and  singers,  result 
from  the  fact  that  praise  has  become  so  much  the  mo- 
tive of  their  life  that  they  grudge  the  applause  awarded 
to  their  fellows. 

The  difference  between  praise  and  flattery  is  as 
wide  as  that  between  praise  and  blame.  Praise  is  a 
legitimate  tribute  to  worth  and  worthy  doing.  It  is 
entirely  unselfish  in  its  motive.  It  is  the  discharge  of 
a  debt.  Flattery  originates  always  in  a  selfish  motive, 


The  Influence  of  Praife. 


273 


and  seeks  by  falsehood  to  feed  an  unhealthy  desire  for 
praise.  A  man  whom  it  is  proper  to  praise  cannot  be 
flattered,  and  a  man  who  can  be  flattered  ought  not  to 
be  praised.  It  is  always  safe  to  praise  a  man  who 
really  deserves  praise.  Such  a  man  usually  knows  how 
much  he  deserves,  and  will  take  only  the  exact  amount. 
Indeed,  he  will  be  very  particular  to  give  back  the 
right  change.  The  flatterer  is  like  the  man  who  stands 
behind  a  bar  to  deal  out  poison  to  a  debased  appetite 
for  gain.  The  man  who  utters  honest  praise  is  noble ; 
the  man  who  receives  it  does  so  without  humiliation, 
and  is  made  strong  by  it.  The  flatterer  is  always  a 
scoundrel,  and  the  glad  receiver  of  his  falsehoods  is 
always  a  fool — natural  or  otherwise. 

The  desire  for  praise  is  often  very  strong  in  those 
who  never  do  any  thing  to  deserve  it,  and  who  are 
never  ready  to  award  it  to  those  who  have  earned 
it.  There  are  men  in  every  community  who  are  uni- 
versally recognized  as  supremely  selfish,  yet  supremely 
greedy  of  praise.  This  desire  does  not  arise  from 
over-indulgence  in  the  article,  for  they  never  had  even 
a  taste  of  it.  They  are  known  to  be  selfish  and  hard 
and  mean,  yet  they  long  for  praise  and  popularity, 
with  a  desire  that  is  almost  ludicrous.  They  never 
give  a  dollar  to  the  poor,  they  never  deny  themselves 
for  the  good  of  others,  they  are  shut  up  in  themselves 
— without  any  good  or  great  or  generous  qualities — 
12* 


274  Leflbns  in  Life. 


yet  they  clutch  at  every  word  that  sounds  like  praise 
as  if  they  were  starved.  The  only  use  of  the  desire 
in  these  men  is  to  furnish  the  world  with  a  nose  by 
which  to  lead  them. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  praise  should  be  ren- 
dered directly  in  all  cases  to  the  persons  to  whom  it  is 
due,  for  the  relations  between  debtor  and  creditor  may 
be  such  as  to  forbid  it.  I  may  be  a  humble  admirer  of 
some  great  and  good  man,  who  has  been  the  doer  of 
great  and  good  deeds,  but  my  personal  relations  to  him 
may  be  such  that  it  is  not  proper  for  me  to  approach 
him,  and  pay  my  tribute  into  his  hands.  Men  are  often 
careful  of  the  channels  through  which  the  response  to 
their  deeds,  in  the  hearts  of  other  men,  reaches  them ; 
but  I  may  discharge  my  debt,  nevertheless,  by  sound- 
ing their  praise  in  other  ears.  It  is  usually  the  work 
of  those  who  stand  next  to  a  man,  to  gather  up  the 
tributes  of  a  grateful  and  admiring  community  or  peo- 
ple, and  bear  them  to  him  to  whom  they  belong.  Be- 
cause I  may  not  approach  a  praiseworthy  man,  with 
the  offering  which  I  feel  to  be  his  due,  it  is  none  the 
less  incumbent  upon  me  to  discharge  the  debt.  Just 
and  generous  praise  will  come  from  every  just  and  gen- 
erous nature  in  some  form,  and  will  be  deposited  in 
some  bosom  subject  to  the  draft  of  the  owner. 

It  is  not  easy  for  any  man  to  work  alone,  out  of  the 
sight  of  his  fellows,  and  beyond  the  recognition  of  his 


The  Influence  of  Praife.  275 

deeds.  However  self-sufficient  he  may  be,  he  is  stronger, 
and  he  feels  stronger,  in  the  approbation  of  generous 
and  appreciative  hearts.  We  are  very  much  in  the 
habit  of  thinking  that  men  of  great  minds  and  noble 
deeds  and  self-reliant  natures  do  not  need  the  approval 
of  other  minds,  and  do  not  care  for  it ;  but  God  never 
lifted  any  man  so  far  above  his  fellows  that  their  voices 
were  not  the  most  delightful  sounds  that  reached  him. 
If  this  be  true  of  great  natures,  how  much  more  evi- 
dently true  is  it  of  smaller  natures !  We,  the  people 
of  the  world,  go  leaning  on  each  other ;  and  we  totter 
sometimes,  even  to  falling,  when  a  shoulder  drops  from 
underneath  our  hand.  We  need  encouragement  with 
every  step.  In  the  path  of  worthy  doing,  we  need  some 
loving  voice  to  witness  with  our  approving  consciences, 
that  we  have  done  that  which  becomes  us  as  men  and 
women.  We  long  to  hear  the  sentence,  "  well  done, 
thou  good  and  faithful  servant,"  from  day  to  day ;  and 
when  we  hear  it,  we  are  ready  for  further  labor.  We 
need  also  to  give  this  daily  meed  of  praise  to  those  who 
deserve  it,  that  we  may  keep  ourselves  unselfish,  and 
root  out  from  ourselves  all  niggardliness.  We  owe  it  to 
oui*selves  to  pay  off  every  debt  as  soon  as  it  is  incur- 
red, and  never,  under  any  selfish  motive,  to  withhold  it. 
It  is  notorious  that  the  finest  spirits  of  the  world, 
and  the  world's  greatest  benefactors,  have  gone  through 
life -unrecognized.  They  have  lain  down  in  their  graves 


276  Leffons  in  Life. 

at  last  without  having  received  a  tithe  of  the  debt  which 
their  generation  owed  to  them.  When  the  turf  has 
closed  over  their  bosoms,  and  the  mean  jealousies  of 
their  cotemporaries  have  been  vanquished  by  death,  then 
whole  nations  have  thronged  to  do  them  honor.  Songs 
have  been  sung  to  their  memory ;  and  the  words  of  praise 
which  would  have  done  so  much  to  cheer  and  strengthen 
them  once,  are  poured  out  in  abundance  when  the  need 
of  them  is  past.  Stately  monuments  are  erected  to 
them,  and  their  children  are  petted  and  caressed,  and 
a  tardy,  jealous,  and  hypocritical  world  strives  to  win 
self-respect  by  the  payment  of  a  debt  long  overdue. 
"  Speak  nothing  but  good  of  the  dead "  is  a  proverb 
that  had  its  birth  in  the  world's  sense  of  its  own  mean- 
ness,— the  consciousness  that  it  had  not  done  justice  to 
the  dead  while  they  were  living.  Many  a  man  is  sys- 
tematically abused  during  all  his  active  life,  only  to  lie 
down  in  his  grave  amid  the  laudations  of  a  nation.  I 
know  of  nothing  in  all  the  exhibitions  of  human  nature 
meaner  than  this.  It  amounts  to  a  virtual  confession 
of  fraud.  It  is  the  acknowledgment  of  a  debt,  which, 
while  the  creditor  could  get  any  benefit  from  it,  the 
world  refused  to  pay.  Posthumous  fame  may  be  a  very 
fine  thing ;  but  I  have  never  known  a  really  worthy 
man,  with  a  healthy  nature  and  a  healthy  character,  who 
did  not  prize  far  above  it  the  love,  the  confidence,  and 
the  praise  of  the  generation  to  which  he  gave  his  life. 


The  Influence  of  Praife.  277 

It  is  the  mark  of  a  noble  nature  to  be  quick  to  rec- 
ognize that  which  is  praiseworthy  in  others,  and  ready 
on  the  moment  to  award  to  it  its  fitting  meed.  Such  a 
nature  looks  for  that  which  is  good  in  men,  sees  it,  en- 
courages it,  and  gives  it  the  strength  of  its  indorsal. 
All  that  is  noble  in  other  men  thrives  in  the  presence 
of  such  a  nature  as  this.  It  is  sunshine  and  showers 
and  healthful  breezes  to  all  that  is  amiable  and  laudable 
in  the  souls  around  it.  Woman  grows  more  womanly 
and  lovable  and  happy  in  its  presence.  Men  grow  he- 
roic and  unselfish  by  its  side.  Children  gather  from  it 
encouragement  and  inspiration,  and  impulse  and  direc- 
tion into  a  beautiful  life.  What  knows  the  charming 
wife  whom  we  lay  in  the  tomb,  of  the  tears  we  shed 
above  her,  of  the  endearments  we  lavish  upon  her  mem- 
ory, and  of  the  praises  of  her  virtue  with  which  we  bur- 
den the  ears  of  our  friends?  This  same  wife  would  have 
drunk  such  expressions  during  her  life  with  satisfaction 
and  gratification  beyond  expression.  Why  can  death 
alone  teaoh  us  that  those  whom  we  love  are  dear  ?  Why 
must  they  be  placed  forever  beyond  our  sight  before 
our  lips  can  be  unsealed  ?  Why  must  it  be  that  in  our 
public,  social,  and  family  life  we  have  penalties  in  abun- 
dance, but  no  rewards — censure  in  profusion,  but  no 
praise — fault-finding  without  stint  of  freedom,  but  ap- 
probation dealt  out  by  constrained  and  niggardly 
hands  ? 


LESSON  XX. 

UNNECESSARY   BURDENS. 

"I  groan  beneath  this  cowardice  of  heart 
"Which  rolls  the  evil  to  be  borne  to-day 
Upon  to-morrow,  loading  it  with  gloom." 
ALEXANDER  SMITH. 

"There  are  two  ways  of  escaping  from  suffering;  the  one  by  rising  above 
the  causes  of  conflict,- the  other  by  sinking  below  them;  for  there  is  quiet  in  the 
soul  when  all  its  faculties  are  harmonized  about  any  centre.  The  one  is  the  re- 
ligious method ;  the  other  is  the  vulgar,  worldly  method.  The  one  is  called 
Christian  elevation;  the  other,  stoicism."— BEECHEB. 

THERE  were  few  houses  of  the  old  time  in  New 
England  that  did  not  contain  a  well-thumbed 
volume  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress ;  and  there  were  few 
children  who  did  not  become  acquainted  with  its  con- 
tents, either  through  its  text  or  its  pictures.  I  am 
sure  that  all  the  children  felt  as  I  did — very  tired  with 
sympathy  for  the  poor  pilgrim  who  was  obliged  to  lug 
that  ugly  pack  from  picture  to  picture,  and  very  "  glad 
and  lightsome"  when  at  last  it  fell  from  his  shoulders, 
and  went  tumbling  down  the  hill.  We  did  not  marvel 


Unneceffary  Burdens.  279 

that  "  he  stood  still  awhile,  to  look  and  wonder,"  or 
that  "  he  looked,  and  looked  again,  even  till  the  springs 
that  were  in  his  head  sent  the  waters  down  his  cheeks." 
It  was  a  great  thing  for  a  man  who  was  bent  on  prog- 
ress to  be  freed  from  an  unnecessary  burden ;  and 
it  may  be  pleasant  to  know  that  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
of  life  the  same  sepulchre  which  swallowed  the  burden 
of  Bunyan's  Pilgrim,  so  that  he  "  saw  it  no  more,"  still 
stands  open,  and  has  room  in  it  for  all  the  burdens  of 
all  the  pilgrims  there  are  in  the  world. 

I  wonder  whether  all  the  pilgrims  who  have  under- 
taken the  journey  "  from  this  world  to  that  which  is 
to  come  "  ever  lose  the  pack  whose  fastenings  were  so 
quickly  dissolved  when  our  favorite  old  Pilgrim  looked 
upon  the  Cross  ?  I  doubt  it.  I  hear  many  people 
groaning  throughout  the  whole  course  of  their  Chris- 
tian experience  with  the  oppressive  weight  of  this  same 
burden.  Instead  of  losing  it  at  the  sight  of  the  cross, 
they  hold  to  it,  and  will  not  let  it  go.  They  mean  well 
enough ;  but  they  do  not  understand  that  the  cross 
was  reared,  and  the  meek  sufferer  nailed  to  it,  that 
the  burden  of  the  penitent  soul  might  be  forever  rolled 
off.  They  carry  their  own  sins,  and  never  yield  the 
pack  to  Him  who  bore  it  for  them  "  in  His  own  body, 
on  the  tree."  They  are  never  "  light  and  gladsome  " 
with  a  sense  of  great  relief;  and  their  Christian  prog- 
ress is  sadly  impeded  by  the  burden  from  which  the 


280  Leffons  in  Life. 

central  truth  of  the  Christian  scheme  releases  them. 
If  there  be  any  such  thing  as  forgiveness,  then  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  release  ;  but  I  think  there  are  many 
subjects  of  free  and  full  forgiveness  who  insist  on  carry- 
ing their  old,  dirty  packs  to  their  graves,  staggering 
under  them  all  the  way. 

But  this  is  not  what  I  started  to  write  about.  A 
great  many  men  carry  their  life  as  an  author  carries  a 
book  which  he  is  writing — never  losing  the  sense  of 
their  burden.  When  a  writer  undertakes  a  book,  and 
feels  the  necessity  of  perfect  continuity  of  thought  and 
symmetry  of  structure,  he  can  never  lay  it  wholly  aside. 
When  once  he  has  taken  up  the  first  chapter,  and  com- 
prehended his  materials  and  machinery  and  end,  he 
does  not  dare  to  lay  down  his  work,  or  diverge  from  the 
grand  channel  of  his  thought,  until  the  last  chapter  is 
finished.  He  can  take  no  three  months'  vacation ;  he 
can  read  no  books  that  do  not  contribute  to  his  prog- 
ress in  the  chosen  direction  ;  he  can  never  wholly  lay 
aside  the  burden  that  is  on  him.  It  is  like  lifting  upon 
one's  shoulder  the  end  of  a  long  pole,  and  then  walking 
under  it  from  end  to  end.  The  burden  upon  the  shoul- 
der is  not  relieved  until  the  whole  length  has  been 
passed,  and  it  drops  as  we  walk  from  under  it.  Such 
is  the  way  that  many  m^n,  and,  perhaps,  most  men, 
carry  life.  If  their  business  troubles  them,  they  have 
no  power  to  throw  it  off,  and  no  disposition  to  try  to 


Unneceffary  Burdens.  281 

do  it.  They  are  entirely  aware  that  they  gain  nothing 
by  carrying  their  tedious  burden,  but  they  carry  it. 
]N~ot  content  with  doing  their  duty,  and  trying  their 
best  while  actively  engaged,  they  take  home  with  them 
a  long  face,  breathe  sighs  around  them  in  the  saddest 
fashion,  and  really  unfit  themselves  for  the  healthy 
exercise  of  their  reason,  and  the  active  employment 
of  their  faculties. 

"With  men  of  this  stamp,  it  makes  little  difference 
whether  they  are  prosperous  or  otherwise.  If  times 
are  good,  and  they  really  have  no  fault  to  find  with 
matters  as  they  exist,  they  become  troubled  about  bad 
times  that  may  possibly  lie  just  ahead.  "  Oh,  it's  all  well 
enough  to-day,"  they  say,  "  but  you  can't  tell  what  is 
coming;"  so  they  bind  the  burden  of  the  future  upon 
them,  and  undertake  to  steal  a  march  on  God's  provi- 
dence. Such  a  thing  as  doing  the  duty  of  a  single 
day,  and.  doing  it  well,  and  then  throwing  off  the  bur- 
den of  care,  and  having  a  good  time  in  some  rational 
way,  until  the  hour  comes  for  the  commencement  of 
the  next  day's  duty,  they  are  strangers  to.  They 
walk  into  their  houses  with  a  cloud  upon  their  faces. 
They  have  no  words  of  cheer  for  those  whom  they  have 
left  at  home  during  the  day.  They  are  moody  and 
sullen  and  sad — absorbed  by  their  troubled  thoughts — 
taking  no  interest  in  the  schemes,  and  having  no  sym- 
pathy with  the  trials,  of  their  wives  and  children,  and 


282  Leffons  in  Life. 

making  no  effort  to  relieve  themselves  of  their  burdens. 
If  they  pray  at  all,  they  practically  pray  like  this: 
"  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread,  and  to-morrow, 
and  next  day,  and  the  day  after,  and  next  year,  and 
fifty  years  to  come  ;  and  lest  Thou  shouldst  forget  it, 
or  neglect  to  answer  us,  we  have  undertaken  to  look 
after  the  matter  ourselves." 

To  say  nothing  of  the  constant  sadness,  uneasiness, 
and  discomfort  of  such  a  life  as  this,  to  all  those  who 
lead  it,  and  to  all  who  are  intimately  associated  with 
them,  the  permanent  effect  of  it  upon  the  character  of 
its  subjects  is  to  make  them  selfish  and  hard,  and  small 
and  mean.  Whatever  may  be  their  circumstances,  they 
become  sensitive  upon  any  expenditure  of  money  for 
purposes  beyond  the  simplest  necessities  of  personal 
and  family  life.  This  result  is  both  natural  and  inevi- 
table. A  man  whose  life,  in  and  out  of  his  counting- 
room,  is  absorbed  by  business,  ceases,  at  last,  to  be 
any  thing  but  a  man  of  business ;  and  his  mind  con- 
tracts and  hardens  down  to  its  central,  motive  idea. 
That  which  becomes  the  dominant  aim  and  the  grand 
end  of  life,  always  determines  the  character  of  life  ; 
and  I  have  known  young  men,  even  before  they  have 
approached  middle  age,  to  become  mean  and  miserly 
to  such  a  degree  as  to  disappoint  and  disgust  their 
friends,  simply  in  consequence  of  a  few  years'  absorp- 
tion in  business.  Business  is  not  life,  nor  is  it  life's  end. 


Unneceffary  Burdens.  283 

It  is  simply  a  means  of  life ;  and  all  true  living  lies 
outside  of  it.  Ministry  is  the  mission  of  business — 
ministry  to  necessity,  to  comfort,  and  to  a  personal, 
family,  and  social  life  into  which  business  never  enters, 
save  with  an  unwelcome  foot  and  a  disturbing  hand. 
This  everlasting  hugging  of  the  burden  of  business,  is, 
therefore,  not  only  a  painful  task,  but  it  is  permanently 
damaging  to  all  who  indulge  in  it. 

"  It  is  very  easy  to  talk,"  says  my  friend,  with  a 
load  upon  his  shoulders,  "  but  talking  does  not  pay 
notes  at  the  bank,  and  keep  creditors  easy,  and 
provide  for  one's  family."  Granted :  and  now  will 
you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  how  many  notes  you 
ever  paid  at  bank,  and  how  much  provision  you  ever 
made  for  your  family  by  "  mugging  '»  over  your  troub- 
les out  of  business  hours  ?  If  your  retort  is  good  for 
any  thing,  mine  is.  You  never  accomplished  one  good 
thing  in  your  life  by  making  yourself  and  others  un- 
happy through  constant  dwelling  upon  trouble  when 
not  engaged  in  active  efforts  to  extricate  yourself  from 
it.  You  never  gained  a  single  inch  of  progress  by 
dwelling  upon  miscarriages  in  business  which  you  could 
not  avoid.  All  your  absorption,  all  your  sad  reflection, 
all  your  misgivings  about  the  future,  all  your  care 
beyond  the  exercise  of  your  best  ability  in  action,  has 
not  only  been  utterly  useless,  but  it  has  injured  the 
comfort  of  all  around  you,  destroyed  the  peace  of  your 


284  Leffons  in  Life. 

life,  cheated  you  out  of  the  reward  of  your  labor,  and 
made  a  smaller,  harder,  meaner  man  of  you.  If  any 
good  result  could  be  secured  by  carrying  the  burden 
of  your  business  into  all  your  life,  then  there  would  be 
some  apology  for  it ;  but  you  know  that  no  such  result 
can  be  secured.  "  It  is  very  easy  to  talk,"  my  friend 
persists  in  saying,  "  but  one  cannot  always  command 
one's  mind,  in  such  a  matter  as  this."  Did  you  ever 
try  ?  Have  you  ever  systematically  tried  to  do  this  ? 
Is  it  your  regular  aim,  after  you  have  discharged  the 
business  of  the  day,  to  throw  off  care  until  the  next 
day's  business  is  undertaken  ?  No  ?  Then  how  do 
you  know  whether  it  is  easy  or  not  ? 

I  believe  it  is  in  the  power  of  every  man,  who  has 
not  too  long  abused  himself,  to  lay  aside  every  night 
his  pack  of  mental  care  and  anxiety,  and  enter  into 
life.  Not  only  this,  but  I  believe  that  it  is  absolutely 
essential  to  his  business  success  that  he  do  this.  A  man 
who  dwells  constantly  upon  the  dark  side  of  his  affairs, 
and  is  troubled  and  gloomy  in  his  apprehensions  con- 
cerning the  future,  becomes  a  weak  and  timid  man — 
disqualified  in  many  essential  respects  for  the  work  of 
his  life.  His  mind  needs  rest  and  revivification.  Sup- 
pose an  ass  were  to  be  treated  in  the  manner  in  which 
men  treat  themselves.  Suppose  the  burden  which  we 
place  upon  him  during  the  day  were  kept  lashed  to  his 
back  at  night,  so  that  he  must  bear  it,  either  standing 


Unneceffary  Burdens.  285 

or  lying,  off  duty  as  well  as  on.  How  long  would  he 
be  worth  any  thing  for  labor?  The  illustration  is 
apposite  in  every  particular.  If  the  mind  is  to  be  kept 
fit  for  business,  it  is  at  regular  periods  to  be  kept  out 
of  business.  A  great  multitude  of  business  failures  are 
attributable,  I  have  no  doubt,  to  the  debilitating  and 
damaging  effect  of  carrying  the  burdens  of  business 
between  business  hours.  Men  become  in  a  measure 
sick  and  insane  by  dwelling  upon  their  affairs,  when 
they  should  be  receiving  rest  and  refreshment. 

Again,  men  who  insist  upon  keeping  their  packs 
upon  their  shoulders,  practically  deny  the  existence  of 
the  providence  of  a  Being  superior  to  themselves,  and 
dominant  in  all  human  affairs.  If  I  were  to  say  to  one 
of  these  men  :  "  you  do  not  believe  in  Providence  at 
all,"  he  would  accuse  me  of  a  harsh  judgment,  and  feel 
injured  by  it;  but  it  is  certainly  legitimate  for  me  to 
ask  him  what  evidence  he  gives  of  his  belief.  All, 
indeed,  profess  to  believe  in  Providence,  in  a  certain 
general  way.  The  popular  idea  is  very  foggy  upon 
the  matter.  We  somehow  imagine  that  God  knows 
every  thing  in  general  and  nothing  in  particular — that 
He  takes  interest  in,  supervision  of,  and  controlling 
influence  over,  matters  at  large,  with  an  imperial  dis- 
regard of  details — that  He  moulds  with  a  majestic  hand 
the  character  and  destiny  of  nations,  but  never  conde- 
scends to  meddle  with  the  small  and  insignificant 


286  Leffons  in  Life. 

affairs  of  individuals.  Providence,  in  this  view,  would 
seem  to  be  very  much  like  certain  tongs  used  in  a 
blacksmith's  shop,  whose  jaws  do  not  wholly  close — 
convenient  for  handling  large  pieces  of  iron,  but  in- 
capable of  grasping  a  nail.  Or,  Providence  is  like  a 
great  general,  who  only  directs  the  movements  of  large 
bodies  of  men,  deals  only  with  the  officers,  and  never 
thinks  of  so  small  a  thing  as  looking  after  the  blanket 
of  a  private  soldier,  or  dressing  a  wounded  finger. 

It  is  very  easy  to  perceive  that  such  a  Providence 
as  this  has  no  practical  value  in  every-day,  individual 
life.  Very  evidently  it  is  not  that  Providence  which 
numbers  the  hairs  of  men's  heads,  and  without  whose 
notice  not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground.  One  is  a  Provi- 
dence made  by  men  who  undertake  to  measure  God  by 
themselves ;  the  other  is  the  Providence  revealed  in 
the  Bible.  God  exercises  a  special  providence,  which 
reaches  to  the  minutest  affairs  of  the  most  insignificant 
man,  or  we  are  all  in  a  condition  of  essential  orphanage. 
A  special  Providence  denied,  and  prayer  becomes  a 
mockery,  devotion  a  deceit,  and  the  sense  of  individ- 
ual responsibility  slavery  to  a  superstitious  idea.  Now 
I  do  not  pretend  to  address  myself  to  men  who  do 
not  believe  in  prayer.  I  know  men  well  enough  to 
know  that  there  are  very  few  of  them  who  do  not  be- 
lieve in  prayer,  and  that  there  are  very  few  of  them 
who  do  not,  particularly  in  moments  of  danger,  pray. 


Unneceffary  Burdens.  287 

Deep  down  under  the  thickest  crusts  of  depravity  there 
lies  the  conviction,  always  ready  to  rise  in  painful  emer- 
gencies, that  God  takes  cognizance  of  every  man,  and 
is  able  to  help  him.  Smooth  away  the  idea  of  Provi- 
dence as  we  may,  into  an  unmeaning  generality,  the 
time  comes,  in  every  man's  life,  when  he  recognizes  the 
fact  that  God  is  dealing  with  him ;  and  he  may  as  well 
recognize  the  fact  all  the  time  as  when  he  is  driven  to 
feel  that  he  has  no  help  in  himself. 

So,  if  there  be  a  special  Providence,  it  is  a  Provi- 
dence to  be  trusted ;  and  the  man  who  believes  in  it 
has  no  apology  for  carrying  a  single  unnecessary  bur- 
den. This  providence  in  all  human  affairs,  is  like  the 
principle  of  vitality  in  the  vegetable  world.  It  does 
not  release  us  from  effort,  in  every  legitimate  and 
needful  way,  for  the  accomplishment  of  our  laudable 
purposes ;  but  when  our  efforts  are  complete,  it  takes 
care  of  the  rest.  What  should  we  think  of  the  farmer 
who  could  never  roll  the  burden  of  his  cornfield  from 
his  mind,  and  who,  after  hoeing  his  ground  repeatedly, 
and  cutting  or  covering  every  weed,  should  go  night 
after  night  and  sit  up  with  it,  and  think  of  it,  and  dream 
of  it  all  the  while  ?  He  has  done  all  there  is  for  him 
to  do,  and  beyond  this  he  cannot  control  an  hour  of 
sunshine,  a  drop  of  dew,  or  a  single  cloud-full  of  ram. 
He^cannot  influence  the  law  of  growth  in  any  particu- 
lar. His  field  is  in  the  control  of  a  power  entirely 


288  Leffons  in  Life. 

above  and  beyond  him ;  and  every  thought  he  gives 
to  it,  after  having  done  what  he  can  for  its  prosperity, 
is  utterly  useless.  It  is  his  business  to  trust.  Having 
done  what  he  can,  the  remainder  is  in  the  hands  of  Him 
who  feeds  the  springs  of  being  with  light  and  heat  and 
moisture.  It  is  thus  that  man's  affairs  grow  while  he 
sleeps.  The  hand  that  ministers  to  every  plant  will 
not  fail  to  minister  to  him  for  whose  use  the  plant  was 
made. 

Why  do  not  men  trust  in  Providence  ?  Simply 
because,  in  their  usual  moods  and  in  their  usual  cir- 
cumstances, they  do  not  believe  in  it.  There  is  no 
other  explanation.  You,  my  friend,  who  carry  your 
burdens  around  on  your  shoulders  all  the  time,  and 
who,  perhaps,  pray  every  morning  and  every  night,  do 
not  believe  in  Providence.  You  do  not  feel  that  jpu 
can  trust  Providence.  You  assent  to  all  that  I  say 
upon  the  subject,  but,  after  all,  your  belief  in  Provi- 
dence has  no  genuine  vitality.  You  do  not  believe  in 
it  as  you  believe  in  the  purity  of  your  wife  or  the  honor 
of  your  friend.  You  do  not  rely  upon  it  for  an  hour. 
You  do  nod  your  head  and  say — "  yes,  yes ; "  and  you 
think  you  are  sincere ;  but  you  deceive  yourself.  So 
long  as  you  persist  in  carrying  your  pack,  which  is  a 
very  unpleasant  burden,  as  you  know,  you  do  not  be- 
lieve in  Providence  ;  else  you  would  trust  in  it.  You 
are  tired  and  harassed  by  your  daily  labor ;  and  it  is 


Unneceffary  Burdens.  289 

very  natural  to  suppose  that  if  you  could  remove  your 
burden  each  evening,  and  place  it  in  the  charge  of  one 
whom  you  believe  would  take  care  of  it,  you  would  do 
it  with  gladness.  You  fail  to  do  it,  and  what  is  the 
natural  conclusion  ?  It  is  that  your  belief  in  Provi- 
dence is  a  humbug.  You  believe  in  the  honor  of  your 
friend,  and  you  trust  it.  You  believe  in  the  honesty 
and  ability  of  your  creditor,  and  you  trust  him.  You 
trust  every  thing  and  everybody  that  you  firmly  be- 
lieve in ;  and  the  only  reason  under  heaven  why  you 
do  not  roll  off  the  burden  that  oppresses  you,. every 
day  and  every  hour  of  your  life,  and  commit  it  to  the 
care  of  Providence,  is,  that  you  do  not  believe  in  Prov- 
idence. 

We  are  in  the  habit  of  talking  about  the  world  as  a 
world  of  care,  and  speaking  of  human  life  as  insepara- 
bly accompanied  by  trouble.  This  is,  indeed,  the  truth; 
but  if  we  were  to  remove  from  the  world  all  its  useless 
care,  and  take  from  life  all  its  unnecessary  trouble, 
they  would  be  transformed  into  such  bright  and  pleas- 
ant things  that  we  should  hardly  know  them.  I  know 
very  few  men  and  women  who  do  not  bear  about  with 
them  care  and  trouble  which  God  never  put  upon  them, 
and  which  He  has  no  desire  to  see  upon  their  shoulders. 
It  does  not  belong  to  them.  It  relates  to  things  that 
are  in  the  realm  of  Providence  alone,  or  to  things  over 
which  they  have  no  control,  The  future  is  God's,  but 
13 


290  Leffons  in  Life. 

they  voluntarily  take  it  upon  their  shoulders,  and  try 
to  bear  it.  They  pluck  a  section  of  God's  eternity  out 
of  His  hands,  and  groan  with  the  burden.  They  as- 
sume care  which  is  not  their  own — which  belongs  to 
the  Controller  of  their  lives,  and  the  Governor  of  the 
universe.  It  is  care  for  that  which  is  beyond  human 
care — anxiety  for  that  which  anxiety  cannot  reach — 
trouble  about  that  which  we  can  neither  make  nor 
mend — that  oppresses  humanity.  We  can  bear  our 
daily  burdens  very  well.  "We  can  go  through  our  reg- 
ular hours  of  bodily  and  mental  labor,  and  feel  the  bet- 
ter rather  than  the  worse  for  it ;  but  to  care  for  that 
which  our  care  cannot  touch,  and  to.  be  troubled  about 
that  which  is  entirely  beyond  our  sphere — this  is  the 
burden  that  breaks  the  back  of  the  world— this  is  the 
burden  which  we  bind  to  our  shoulders  with  obstinate 
fatuity. 


LESSON  XXI. 

PBOPER  PEOPLE  AND  PERFECT  PEOPLE. 

"  I  must  have  liberty 
Withal,  as  large  a  charter  as  the  wind 
To  blow  on  whom  I  please." 

SHAKSPERE. 

"They  say  best  men  are  moulded  out  of  faults." 
THE  SAME. 

"  There's  no  such  thing  in  nature,  and  you'll  draw 
A  faultless  monster  which  the  world  ne'er  saw." 

SHEFFIELD. 

"VT ATTIRE  calls  for  room  and  for  freedom — room 
_J_  1  for  her  ocean  and  freedom  for  its  waves ;  room 
for  her  rivers  and  freedom  for  their  flowing ;  room  for 
her  forests  and  freedom  for  every  tree  to  respond  to 
the  influences  of  earth  and  sky  according  to  its  law. 
Exceedingly  proper  things  are  not  at  all  in  the  line  of 
nature.  Nature  never  trims  a  hedge,  or  cuts  off  the 
tail  of  a  horse.  Nature  never  compels  a  brook  to  flow 


292  Leffons  in  Life, 

in  a  right  line,  but  permits  it  to  make  just  as  many 
turns  in  a  meadow  as  it  pleases.  Nature  is  very  care- 
less about  the  form  of  her  clouds,  and  masses  and  colors 
them  with  great  disregard  of  the  opinions  of  the  paint- 
ers. Nature  never  thinks  of  smoothing  off  her  rocks, 
and  cleaning  away  her  mud,  and  keeping  herself  trim 
and  neat.  She  does  very  improper  things  in  a  very 
impulsive  manner.  Instead  of  contriving  some  safe, 
silent,  and  secret  way  to  dispose  of  her  electricity,  she 
comes  out  with  a  blinding  flash  and  a  stunning  crash, 
and  a  rush  of  rain  that  very  likely  fills  the  mountain 
streams  to  overflowing,  and  destroys  bridges  and 
booms,  and  cabins  and  cornfields.  On  the  whole,  though 
nature  keeps  up  a  respectable  appearance,  I  suppose 
that,  in  the  opinion  of  my  particular  friend  Miss  Nancy, 
she  would  be  improved  by  taking  a  few  lessons  of  a 
French  gardener,  and  reading  savage  criticisms  on 
Ruskin. 

I  have  alluded  to  my  particular  friend  Miss  Nancy. 
Perhaps  I  ought  to  say,  at  starting,  that  Miss  Nancy 
is  a  man,  and  that  I  use  the  name  bestowed  upon  him 
by  his  enemies,  because  it  is,  in  a  very  important  sense, 
descriptive.  Miss  Nancy's  boots  are  faithfully  polished 
twice  a  day.  His  linen  is  immaculate ;  and  the  tie  of 
his  cravat  is  square  and  faultless.  He  never  makes  a 
mistake  in  grammar  while  engaged  in  conversation. 
He  is  versed  in  all  the  forms  and  usages  of  society,  and 


Proper  People  and  Perfed   People.      293 

particularly  at  home  in  gallant  attention  to  what  he 
calls  "  the  ladies."  He  seems  to  have  lost  every  rough 
corner,  if  he  ever  had  one.  In  politics  and  religion,  he 
is  just  as  proper  as  in  social  life.  The  most  respectable 
religion  is  his  religion ;  and  the  politics  that  shun  ex- 
tremes are  his  politics.  I  think  he  is  what  they  call  a 
conservative.  At  any  rate,  I  never  knew  him  to  do  a 
rash  or  impulsive  thing,  or  speak  an  improper  word  in 
his  life.  I  think  he  is  as  nearly  perfect  as  any  man  I 
ever  saw. 

But,  after  all,  Miss  Nancy  is  not  a  popular  man. 
He  will  probably  live  and  die  an  old  bachelor,  because 
all  the  women  will  persist  in  laughing  at  him.  He  is 
certainly  good-looking,  his  dress  is  unexceptionable, 
his  manners  are  "  as  good  as  they  make  them,"  and 
his  morals  are  as  proper  as  his  manners ;  yet  I  have  not 
yet  seen  the  woman  who  would  speak  a  pleasant  word 
of  my  friend.  He  is  decidedly  a  "  woman's  man,"  yet 
no  woman  will  own  him,  and  no  woman  feels  comfort- 
able with  him.  His  language  is  so  carefully  guarded 
against  all  impropriety  of  style  and  structure,  that  she 
feels  as  if  he  were  criticizing  every  word  she  utters, 
as  well  as  measuring  his  own.  His  manners  are  so  very 
proper  that  they  are  formal  and  constrained,  and  make 
her  uncomfortable.  His  sentiments  and  opinions  are 
so  very  conservative,  that  they  have  no  vitality  in 
them.  With  a  curious  perverseness,  the  most  gentle 


294  Leflbns  in  Life. 

and  accomplished  women  will  turn  from  him  with  a 
sense  of  relief,  to  join  in  the  society  of  a  hearty  fellow 
with  a  loud  laugh  and  a  dash  of  slang,  and  a  free  and 
easy  way  with  him.  It  may  be  difficult  to  explain  all 
this,  but  it  is  true.  An  exceedingly  proper  man  is 
never  a  popular  man.  That  life  which  is  controlled  by 
rigid  and  unvarying  rules,  and  regulated  by  conven- 
tionalities in  every  minute  particular,  and  restrained  in 
every  impulse  by  notions  of  propriety,  is  unlovely  and 
unnatural,  and  can  never  be  otherwise. 

The  instincts  of  men  are  always  right  in  this  and  all 
cognate  matters.  All  formalism  is  offensive  to  good 
taste.  The  painter  does  not  study  landscape  in  a  gar- 
den. Formal  isles,  closely-trimmed  trees,  rose  bushes 
on  the  top  of  tall  sticks,  flowers  tied  to  supports,  vines 
trained  upon  trellises,  lakes  with  clipped  and  pebbled 
margins  and  India-rubber  swans — these  are  not  pic- 
turesque. There  is  no  more  inspiration  in  them  than 
there  would  be  in  a  row  of  tenement  houses  in  the 
city.  The  painter  looks  for  beauty  out  where  nature 
reigns  undisturbed  amid  her  imperfections, — where  the 
aisles  are  made  by  the  deer  going  to  his  lick ;  where 
the  trees  are  never  trimmed  save  by  the  lightning  or 
the  hurricane;  where  the  rose-bushes  spread  their 
branches  and  the  vines  trail  themselves  at  liberty ;  and 
where  the  lake  looks  up  into  the  faces  of  trees  centu- 
ries old,  and  hems  itself  in  with  thickets  of  alders  and 


Proper  People  and  Perfect  People.      295 

green  reaches  of  flags  and  rushes,  and  throbs  to  the 
touch  of  the  mountain  breeze,  while  on  its  bosom 

"The  black  duck,  with  her  glos?y  breast 
Sits  swinging  silently." 

A  little  child  whose  head  is  piled  with  laces  and 
ribbons,  whose  dress  is  a  mass  of  embroidery,  and  who 
is  booted  and  gloved  and  otherwise  oppressed  by  pa- 
rental vanity  and  extravagance,  is  not  picturesque,  any 
further  than  its  face  goes.  The  portrait  painter  will 
cling  to  the  face  and  let  the  clothes  alone.  All  this 
trickery  of  art,  brought  into  comparison  or  contrast 
with  the  simple  beauty  of  nature,  is  offensive.  Yet  a 
little  beggar  boy,  with  an  old  straw  hat  on,  and  with 
bare,  brown  feet,  and  a  burnt  shoulder  which  his  torn 
shirt  refuses  to  cover,  would  be  a  painter's  joy.  Here 
would  be  drapery  that  he  would  delight  to  paint,  sim- 
ply because  there  would  be  no  formality  about  it.  It  is 
impossible  for  us  to  know  how  ridiculous  a  dress-coat 
is  until  we  see  it  in  a  statue.  We  are  obliged  to  put 
all  our  modern  sages  and  heroes  into  togas  and  blank- 
ets and  long  cloaks  in  order  to  make  them  presentable 
to  posterity. 

We  never  find  groups  of  accordant,  striking  facts 
like  these — and  their  number  could  be  largely  increased 
— without  finding  that  they  are  all  strung  together  by 
an  important  law.  All  1  ife  demands  room  and  freedom — 


296  Leffons  in  Life. 

freedom  to  manifest  itself  in  every  way,  according  to 
the  law  of  its  being  and  the  range  of  its*  circumstances. 
All  life  is  individual  and  characteristic,  and  comes  re- 
luctantly under  the  sway  of  outside  forces.  It  is  not 
natural  to  be  proper,  or  to  love  propriety.  In  saying 
this  I  simply  mean  that  it  is  against  nature  to  bring 
one's  individuality  under  the  curbing  and  controlling 
hands  of  others — to  make  the  notions  of  the  world  the 
law  and  limit  of  one's  liberty,  and  to  square  every 
word  and  every  act  by  arbitrary  rules  imposed  by 
cliques  and  customs.  A  man  who  has  been  clipped  in 
all  his  puttings-forth,  and  modelled  by  outside  hands 
and  outside  influences,  until  it  is  apparent  that  he  is 
governed  from  without  rather  than  from  within,  is  just 
as  unnatural  an  object  as  a  tree  that  has  been  clipped 
and  tied  and  bent  until  its  top  has  grown  into  the  form 
of  a  cube.  Thus  the  reason  why  Miss  Nancy  is  not 
popular,  and  why  the  women  refuse  to  delight  in  him, 
is,  that  he  is  not  his  own  master — that  he  has,  in  him- 
self, no  independent  life.  It  is  riot  proper  that  he  give 
utterance  to  his  impulses ; — so  he  suppresses  them.  It 
is  not  proper  that  he  frankly  reveal  the  emotions  of  his 
heart ;  so  he  conceals  them.  It  is  not  proper  that  he 
enter  enthusiastically  into  any  work  or  any  pleasure ; 
so  he  is  a  constant  check  to  the  enthusiasm  of  others. 
It  is  not  proper  that  he  speak  the  words  that  spring  to 
his  lips  when  his  weak  sensibilities  are  touched ;  so  he 


Proper  People  and  Perfed  People.      297 

studies  his  language,  and  shapes  his  phrases  to  the  ac- 
cepted models.  Thus  is  he  shortened  in  on  e.very  side, 
until  his  individuality  is  all  gone,  and  the  humanity  in 
him  becomes  as  characterless  as  its  expression.  Every 
utterance  of  his  life  is  made  with  a  well-measured  ref- 
erence to  certain  standards  to  which  he  is  an  acknowl- 
edged slave. 

A  scrupulously  proper  man  is  often  a  self-deceiver, 
and  not  unfrequently  an  intentional  deceiver  of  others. 
I  do  not  say  that  he  is  necessarily  a  scoundrel  or  a  fool. 
He  may  be  very  little  of  either,  and  he  may  be  a  little 
of  both.  These  two  words,  which  sound  rather  roughly, 
will  give  us,  I  think,  a  faithful  index  to  his  character. 
A  man  who  is  punctiliously  proper  has  usually  become 
so  in  consequence  of  an  attempt  to  cover  up  his  mental 
deficiencies  or  his  moral  obliquities.  Punctilious  pro- 
priety is  always  pretentious,  and  pretentiousness  is 
always  an  attempt  at  fraud.  A  shallow  mind  is  very 
apt  to  clothe  itself  with  propriety  as  with  a  garment. 
A  brain  that  cannot  handle  large  things  very  often  un- 
dertakes to  manage  a  multiplicity  of  little  things,  and 
runs  naturally  into  those  minute  proprieties  of  life  which 
are  showy,  and  which  appear  to  the  ignorant  to  indi- 
cate great  powers  and  acquisitions  in  reserve.  Most 
proper  men  are  nothing  but  a  shell,  although  many  of 
them  pass  with  the  world  for  more.  Their  life  is  all 
on  the  outside,  and  is  placed  and  kept  there  for  show. 
13* 


298  Lefibns  in  Life. 

We  approach  them,  and  very  frequently  find  them  so 
well  guarded  that  we  do  not  get  a  look  into  their  emp- 
tiness for  a  long  time.  "We  examine  them  as  we  would 
a  hillside  strewn  with  fragments  and  planted  with  bould- 
ers of  marble.  We  are  obliged  to  dig  to  learn  whether 
the  signs  we  see  are  from  an  out-cropping  ledge,  or  an 
outside  deposition.  Sometimes  the  plunge  of  a  single 
question  will  reveal  the  whole  story.  A  man  with 
large  brains  and  a  large  life  in  him  has  something  to 
do  besides  attending  to  the  notions  of  other  people. 
He  has  at  least  no  motive  to  deceive  the  world  by  striv- 
ing to  appear  to  be  more  than  he  is. 

I  have  said  that  there  are  some  men  who  are  punc- 
tiliously proper  for  the  purpose  of  covering  their  moral 
obliquities.  The  virtue  of  a  prude  is  always  to  be  sus- 
pected. "So  you  have  been  looking  after  the  bad 
words,"  was  savage  old  Dr.  Johnson's  reply  to  the 
very  proper  woman  who  found  fault  with  him  for  intro- 
ducing so  many  indecent  words  into  his  dictionary. 
There  are  few  men  who  have  not  frequently,  during 
their  lives,  broken  their  way  through  a  crust  of  punc- 
tilious propriety  into  hearts  full  of  all  the  blackness  of 
sensuality  and  sin.  The  world  is  full  of  hypocrisy,  and 
hypocrisy  is  nothing  more  than  appearing  to  be  what 
one  is  not.  Indeed,  I  believe  that  one  of  the  strongest 
motives  operative  in  the  world  to  render  men  scrupu- 
lously proper  in  their  deportment  and  behavior  is  sin. 


Proper  People  and  PerfeG  People.      299 

I  make  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  shallowness  and 
sensuality  are  the  leading  ingredients  in  the  majority 
of  the  exceedingly  proper  characters  with  which  I  am 
acquainted. 

Leaving  this  particular  phase  of  my  subject,  I  wish 
to  call  attention  to  the  well-recognized  fact  that  all 
perfect  people  are  bores.  A  perfect  character  in  a 
novel  has  no  more  power  over  a  reader — no  more  foot- 
hold among  his  sympathies — than  a  proposition  in  math- 
ematics would  have.  Of  all  stupid  creations  that  the 
brain  of  man  has  given  birth  to,  there  are  none  so  stu- 
pid as  the  perfect  men  and  women  whom  we  find  upon 
the  pages  of  fiction.  Sometimes  we  find  in  actual  life 
a  character  so  symmetrical,  so  rounded  off  at  the  cor- 
ners, and  smoothed  at  the  edges,  and  polished  on  the 
sides,  and  unexceptionable  in  all  its  manifestations,  that 
we  cannot  find  fault  with  it ;  yet  we  find  it  impossible 
for  us  to  love  it.  Such  a  character  gets  beyond  the 
reach  of  our  sympathies.  Human  affection  is  like  ivy. 
It  cannot  cling  to  glass ;  it  must  plant  its  feet  in  im- 
perfections. It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  imperfection 
is  the  true  flavor  of  humanity.  The  mind  refuses  to 
sympathize  where  it  does  not  exist.  What  the  world 
would  call  a  perfect  man — what  would  be  adjudged  a 
perfect  man  by  the  best  standards — would  be  as  taste- 
less as  a  last  year's  apple.  A  perfect  woman  could  no 
more  be  loved  than  she  could  be  hated.  I  never  saw 


300  Leffons  in  Life. 

a  man  with  a  perfect  face — a  face  modelled  so  symmet- 
rically and  so  perfectly  that  no  fault  could  be  found 
with  it — who  was  not  more  or  less  a  numskull.  A 
pretty  man  is  always  a  pretty  fool ;  and  the  more  sym- 
metrical the  features  of  a  woman  are,  the  more  does 
she  approach  to  the  style  of  beauty  and  expression  and 
native  gifts  of  a  porcelain  doll.  The  mind  and  the 
character  can  be  so  symmetrical  that  they  will  lose  all 
charm  and  all  significance.  They  descend  into  simple 
prettiness,  which  is  simple  insipidity. 

I  say  that  imperfection  is  the  true  flavor  of  human- 
ity. In  explanation,  I  ought  to  say  that  all  individu- 
ality is  either  based  upon  it  or  pre-supposes  it.  For 
instance :  the  preponderance  of  certain  powers  and 
qualities  of  mind  and  character  in  me,  over  certain 
other  powers  and  qualities,  and  the  weakness  and 
imperfection  of  these  latter  as  related  to  the  former, 
and  to  the  individualities  of  others,  make  my  individu- 
ality what  it  is.  If  in  me.  all  mental  and  moral  powers 
were  in  equipoise — if  I  were  a  symmetrical  man,  as  the 
first  Adam  may  possibly  have  been — I  should  have  no 
individuality,  no  qualities  that  would  distinguish  me — 
no  weaknesses  that  would  furnish  footholds  for  human 
sympathy — no  freshness  and  flavor.  A  whole  world 
full  of  perfect  men  and  women,  each  one  like  every 
other,  would  be  unutterably  stupid.  Where  there  is 
no  weakness  there  is  no  individuality  ;  where  there  is 


Proper  People  and  Perfect  People.      301 

no  individuality  there  is  no  true  humanity ;  where  there 
is  no  true  humanity  there  is  no  sympathy  ;  and  where 
there  is  no  sympathy  there  is  no  pleasure.  We  demand 
that  a  man  shall  live  according  to  his  law — develop 
himself  according  to  his  law — manifest  and  express 
himself  according  to  his  law  ;  and  then  he  will  become 
the  object  of  our  sympathy  or  antipathy,  according  to 
our  law.  We  demand  that  the  true  flavor  of  every 
individuality  shall  be  declared,  and  not  be  masked  by 
the  imposition  of  conventional  regulations. 

If  every  tree  in  the  world  were  perfect,  according 
to  any  recognized  standard,  then  all  the  trees  would 
be  alike,  and  would  cease  to  be  attractive  and  pictur- 
esque. We  keep  all  perfect  things  out  of  pictures, 
because  they  are  formal  and  tasteless.  A  bran  new 
cottage,  with  a  picket  fence  around  it,  and  every  thing 
cleaned  up  about  it,  is  too  perfect  to  be  picturesque. 
An  old,  tumble-down  mill,  with  rude  and  rotten  tim- 
bers, and  a  wheel  outside,  is  decidedly  picturesque, 
because  its  imperfections  make  it  informal.  The  most 
unattractive  of  all  houses  is  a  model  house.  A  house 
that  no  man  can  find  fault  with,  is  a  house  that  no  man 
can  love.  It  is  precisely  thus  with  human  character 
and  with  men.  A  proper,  perfect,  "model"  man,  is  an 
unlovable  man.  A  sphere  cannot  be  made  to  fit  an 
angle,  and  a  spherical  character  has  no  point  of  sym- 
pathy with  one  that  is  thrown  into  the  angles  necessary 


302  Leffons  in  Life. 

for  individuality.  So  we  neither  love  symmetry  and 
perfection  in  men,  according  to  any  recognized  stand- 
ard, nor  the  appearance  of  them.  We  demand  not 
only  that  men  shall  have  individuality,  but  that  they 
shall  express  it  in  their  language  and  their  lives.  In 
society  we  demand  variety ;  and  in  order  to  have  it, 
men  must  act  out  themselves.  The  harmony  and 
sweetness  of  social  life  consist  in  the  adjustment  of 
the  strong  points  of  some  to  the  weak  points  of  others. 
With  these  facts  so  very  evident  as  they  must  be 
to  all  thoughtful  minds,  it  is  strange  that  such  an  effort 
is  made  to  bring  all  men  to  a  certain  standard  and 
style  of  life.  I  do  not  believe  there  is  a  country  on 
the  face  of  the  earth  where  public  opinion  and  fashion 
and  conventional  and  individual  notions,  exercise  so 
despotic  a  sway  as  they  do  in  America.  There  is,  in 
this  "free  country,"  no  play  to  individuality  tolerated. 
No  room  is  made  for  the  peculiarities  of  a  man — no 
freedom  is  given  to  his  mode  of  manifestation.  A  man 
who  has  peculiar  manners,  and  whose  style  of  individu- 
ality is  marked,  has  no  room  allowed  to  him  at  all.  He 
is  very  likely  to  be  called  a  fool,  and  laughed  at  by  his 
inferiors.  We  take  no  pains  to  look  through  the  out- 
sideto  find  the  heart  and  soul,  and  refuse  to  see  excel- 
lence behind  manifestations  that  offend  our  notions  or 
our  tastes.  We  go  to  hear  a  preacher,  and  if  he  do 
not  happen  to  have  the  externals,  and  the  style  of 


Proper  People  and  Perfect  People.      303 

delivery  which  we  most  admire,  we  condemn  him  at 
once.  We  make  no  room  for  his  individuality,  and 
allow  to  it  no  freedom  of  manifestation.  Room  and 
freedom — that  which  the  ocean  has,  that  which  the 
rivers  have,  that  which  the  forest  has,  and  that  from 
which  all  of  them  derive  their  beauty  and  their  glory 
— room  and  freedom  are  denied  to  men  by  men  who 
need  both,  quite  as  much  as  their  fellows. 

The  choicest  food  of  the  gossips  is  the  personal  pecu- 
liarities of  their  acquaintances.  The  grand  staple  of 
ridicule  is  this  same  individuality,  whose  importance 
I  have  endeavored  to  illustrate.  All  the  small  wits  of 
society  busy  themselves  upon  the  eccentricities  of  those 
around  them.  Church  and  creed,  party  and  platform, 
fashion  and  custom,  all  direct  themselves  against  the 
development  of  individuality.  Sensitive  natures  shrink 
before  such  an  array  of  influences,  and  retire  into  them- 
selves, drawing  back  and  keeping  in  check  all  their 
out-reaching  individuality.  Many  a  man,  indeed,  who 
would  face  a  cannon's  mouth  without  trembling,  flinches 
when  beset  by  ridicule.  It  is  not  the  fault  of  society 
that  the  whole  race  of  mankind  are  not  reduced  to  a 
dead  level  of  character,  and  a  tasteless  uniformity  of 
life.  Were  it  not  that  God  does  His  work  so  strongly, 
it  would  have  been  undone  long  ago.  As  it  is,  we 
always  have  a  few  men  and  women  who  are  true  enough 
to  God  and  themselves  to  keep  the  world  from  stagna- 


304  Leffons  in  Life. 

tion,  and  give  zest  to  life.  They  sometimes  shock  Miss 
Nancy,  but  as  they  do  not  happen  to  care  what  Miss 
Nancy  thinks  of  them,  they  manage  to  live  and  do 
something  to  keep  Miss  Nancy's  friends  from  settling 
into  chronic  inanity. 


LESSON    XXII. 

THE  POETIC  TEST. 

"I  walked  on,  musing  with  myself 
On  life  and  art,  and  whether,  after  all, 
A  larger  metaphysics  might  not  help 
Our  physics — a  completer  poetry 
Adjust  our  daily  life  and  vulgar  wants 
More  fully  than  the  special  outside  plans, 
Phalansteries,  material  institutes, 
The  civil  conscriptions  and  lay  monasteries, 
Preferred  by  modern  thinkers." 

MRS.  BEOWNING. 

THE  highest  poetry  is  the  purest  truth.  To  learn 
whether  any  thing  is  as  it  ought  to  be,  we  have 
only  to  learn  whether  it  is  truly  poetical.  It  is  a 
popular  fallacy  to  suppose  that  poetical  things  are 
necessarily  fanciful,  or  imaginative,  or  sentimental — 
in  other  words,  that  poetry  resides  in  that  which  is 
both  baseless  and  valueless.  In  the  popular  thought, 
poetry  is  shut  out  of  the  realm  of  truth  and  reality. 


306  Leffons  in  Life. 

The  reason,  I  suppose,  is,  that  poetry  demands  more 
of  truth  and  harmony  and  beauty  than  is  commonly 
found  in  the  actualities  of  human  life. 

Let  us  suppose  that  in  a  country  journey  we  arrive 
at  the  summit  of  a  hill,  at  whose  foot  lies  a  charminer 

*  O 

village  imbosomed  in  trees  from  the  midst  of  which 
rises  the  white  spire  of  the  village  church.  If  we  are 
in  a  poetical  mood,  we  say :  "  How  beautiful  is  this 
retirement !  This  quiet  retreat,  away  from  the  world's 
distractions  and  great  temptations,  must  be  the  abode 
of  domestic  and  social  virtue — the  home  of  content- 
ment, of  peace,  and  of  an  unquestioning  Christian  faith. 
Fortunate  are  they  whose  lot  it  is  to  be  born  and  to 
pass  their  days  here,  and  to  be  buried  at  last  in  the 
little  graveyard  behind  the  church."  As  we  see  the 
children  playing  upon  the  grass,  and  the  tidy  matrons 
sitting  in  their  doorways,  and  the  farmers  at  work  in 
the  fields,  and  the  quiet  inn,  with  its  brooding  piazzas 
like  wings  waiting  for  the  shelter  of  its  guests,  the 
scene  fills  us  with  a  rare  poetic  delight.  In  the  midst 
of  our  little  rapture,  however,  a  communicative  villager 
comes  along,  and  we  question  him.  We  are  shocked 
to  learn  that  the  inn  is  a  very  bad  place,  with  a  drunken 
landlord,  that  there  is  a  quarrel  in  the  church  which  is 
about  to  drive  the  old  pastor  away,  that  there  is  not 
a  man  in  the  village  who  would  not  leave  it  if  he  could 
sell  his  property,  that  the  women  give  a  free  rein  to 


The   Poetic  Teft.  307 

their  propensity  for  scandal,  and  that  half  of  the  chil- 
dren of  the  place  are  down  with  the  measles. 

The  true  poet  sees  things  not  always  as  they  are, 
but  as  they  ought  to  be.  He  insists  upon  congruity 
and  consistency.  Such  a  life  should  be  in  such  a  spot, 
under  such  circumstances ;  and  no  tinwarped  and  un- 
polluted mind  can  fail  to  see  that  the  poet's  ideal  is  the 
embodiment  of  God's  will.  The  poet's  Indian  is  very 
different  frern  the  real  native  American  who  has  been 
exposed  to  the  corrupting  influences  of  the  white  man's 
civilization.  The  poet  insists  on  seeing  in  the  American 
Indian  a  noble  manhood,  simple  tastes,  freedom  from 
all  conventionality,  heroic  fortitude,  and  all  those  ro- 
mantic qualities  which  a  free  forest  life  seems  so  well 
calculated  to  engender.  He  looks  upon  the  deep, 
mysterious  woods,  travelled  by  nameless  streams  ;  the 
majestic  mountains,  haunted  by  shadows ;  the  broad 
lakes,  swept  only  by  the  wind  and  the  wild  man's  oar, 
and  he  says :  "  it  is  fitting,  and  only  fitting,  that  out 
of  such  a  realm  should  come  such  a  life."  Which  is  the 
better  and  the  more  truthful  Indian — that  of  the  poet, 
or  he  who  drank  the  rum  of  our  fathers  and  then 
scalped  them  ?  The  poet's  village  is  the  model  village, 
and  the  poet's  Indian  is  the  model  Indian.  Both  are 
built  of  the  best  and  truest  materials  that  God  furnishes, 
and  we  see  that  when  the  actual  village  and  the  real 
Indian  are  tried  by  the  poetic  standard,  they  are  tried 


308  Leffons  in  Life. 

by  the  severest  standard  that  can  be  applied  to  them. 
*  The  poet's  ideal  embodies  God's  ideal  of  a  village  and 
an  Indian. 

The  grand,  basilar  idea  of  American  institutions  is 
human  equality — the  idea  embodied  in  the  American 
Declaration  of  Independence,  that  men  are  created  free 
and  equal,  each  with  an  independent,  and  all  with  a 
co-ordinate,  right  to  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of 
happiness.  There  is  in  this  idea  the  highest  poetry, 
because  it  is  the  transcendent  truth ;  and  there  is  no 
true  poetry  this  side  of  the  highest  truth.  Poetry 
follows  the  universal  law,  and  is  dependent  for  its 
quality  upon  its  materials.  In  the  .degree  in  which 
its  materials  are  fictitious  and  artificial,  is  it  poor  and 
false.  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  is  essentially  better 
poetry  than  the  Paradise  Lost,  because  it  contains 
more  of  the  truth  as  it  is  in  the  divine  life  of  man. 

The  poetic  test,  then,  is  practically  a  very  valuable 
one,  in  all  the  important  matters  that  relate  to  our  life. 
Much  of  that  which  is  miscalled  poetry  has  been  based 
upon  arbitrary  and  artificial  distinctions  in  human  society 
and  human  lot.  The  poet  has  often  sung  of  thrones 
and  palaces,  of  kings  and  queens,  of  men  and  women 
of  gentle  blood,  of  barons  and  knights  and  squires,  of 
retainers  and  dependents,  of  patricians  and  plebeians, 
and  thus  'drawn  his  grand  interest  from  distinctions 
in  which  God  and  Nature  have  had  no  hand.  There 


The  Poetic  Tell  309 

may  be  romance,  fancy,  imagination,  sentiment,  and 
even  instruction  in  such  compositions  as  these,  but 
there  is  no  poetry.  They  have  not  in  them  the  immor- 
tal life  and  the  motive  power  of  truth.  We  have  only 
to  carry  distinctions  thus  attempted  to  be  glorified  to 
their  logical  results  to  land  in  the  slavery  of  the  masses 
to  the  over-mastering  few.  Now  there  never  was,  and 
there  never  can  be,  any  poetry  in  slavery.  Since  time 
began  no  true  poet  has  undertaken  to  write  a  line  in 
praise  of  slavery.  Poets  have  always  been,  and  they 
must  necessarily  forever  be,  the  prophets  and  priests  of 
freedom.  Multitudes  of  men  have  undertaken  to  justify 
slavery  by  the  Bible,  by  expediency,  by  history,  by 
necessity,  by  philosophy,  by  the  constitution  of  the  coun- 
try ;  but  no  man  ever  undertook  to  justify  it  by  poetry. 
The  most  brilliant  prize  offered  by  a  national  committee 
for  the  best  poem  in  praise  of  human  slavery,  would  not 
be  able  to  draw  forth  a  single  stanza  from  any  man 
capable  of  writing  a  line  of  true  poetry.  Philosophical 
defences  of  slavery  can  be  purchased,  political  justifica- 
tions can  be  had  at  the  small  price  of  a  small  office,  and 
Christian  apologies  to  order,  but,  thank  God !  not  one 
line  in  praise  of  slavery  could  be  written  by  a  true  poet, 
if  the  wealth  of  the  world  were  to  be  his  reward. 

We  have  in  the  present  age  a  sickly,  sentimental 
humanity  which  is  busily  endeavoring  to  pervert  the 
sense  and  love  of  justice  in  mankind.  It  regards  the 


310  Leffons  in  Life. 

disposition  to  do  wrong  as  a  disease,  to  be  treated  with 
appropriate  emollients  applied  over  the  heart,  or  some 
gentle  opiate  or  alterative  taken  through  the  ears. 
It  pities  the  murderer,  and  aims  to  give  the  impression 
to  him  and  to  the  world  that  he  is  a  victim  to  the  bar- 
barous instincts  of  society  in  the  degree  by  which  his 
punishment  is  made  severe.  It  aims  to  transform 
prisons  into  comfortable  asylums,  where  those  who 
have  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  burn  somebody's  house, 
or  steal  somebody's  horse,  or  insert  a  dirk  under  some- 
body's waistcoat,  may  retire  and  repent  of  their  little 
follies,  and  in  the  mean  time  get  better  food  and  lodg- 
ing than  they  were  ever  able  to  steal.  Punishment — 
retribution — these  are  words  which  make  them  shudder. 
Nothing  in  their  view  is  proper  but  such  treatment 
of'the  criminal,  be  it  soft  or  severe,  as  will  contribute 
to  his  reformation.  The  criminal  has  forfeited  no 
rights,  and  society  has  no  claims  upon  him,  if  he 
only  repents ;  and  all  punishment  inflicted  beyond 
the  measure  necessary  to  secure  repentance  is  cruel. 
We  have  a  great  deal  of  this;  and  more  or  less  it 
is  modifying  theological  systems  and  vitiating  public 
policy.  It  is  carried  to  such  an  extent,  often,  as  to  make 
of  the  greatest  criminals  notable  martyrs.  Society  and 
the  victim  of  wrong-doing  are  both  forgotten  in  sym- 
pathy for  the  wrong-doer. 

Now  these  sentimental  sympathizers  with  criminals, 


The  Poetic  Teft.  311 

call  themselves  Christians,  and  are  not  "willing  to  be« 
lieve  that  any  man  can,  in  a  truly  Christian  spirit, 
oppose  their  theories  and  their  influence.  They  have 
"been  able  to  blind  almost  every  sense  in  a  man  except 
the  poetic  sense ;  but  to  this  they  appeal  in  vain. 
"Poetic  justice"  maintains  its  purity.  The  reader  of 
a  novel,  no  matter  how  good  or  how  bad  he  may  be, 
demands  that  the  villain  of  the  book  shall  be  punished 
as  a  matter  of  justice  alike  to  him  and  to  those  who 
have  been  his  victims.  Nothing  but  justice — nothing 
but  a  fitting  retribution — will  satisfy.  The  poetic  in- 
stinct demands  a  perfect  system  of  rewards  and  punish- 
ments, and  is  as  little  satisfied  when  a  hero  succeeds 
indifferently,  as  when  a  scoundrel  fails  to  be  punished 
according  to  his  deserts.  There  is  no  poetic  fitness 
without  justice — retribution,  pound  for  pound,  and 
measure  for  measure.  Set  any  audience  that  can  be 
gathered  to  watching  a  play  in  which  criminal  and 
crafty  art  is  made  to  meet  and  master  a  guileless 
spirit  and  pollute  a  spotless  womanhood,  and  the  sym- 
pathies of  the  vilest  will  follow  the  victim,  and,  in  the 
end,  demand  the  punishment  of  the  victor.  Nothing 
will  seem  to  any  audience  so  entirely  out  of  place  as 
kind  and  gentle  treatment  toward  the  artful  brute,  and 
nothing  more  outrageously  unjust  than  the  idea  that 
repentance  is  the  principal  end  of  his  punishment.  The 
poetic  instinct  of  fitness  once  thoroughly  roused,  as  it 


312  Leffons  in  Life. 

is  in  a  story,  a  poem,  or  a  play,  will  be  satisfied  with 
nothing  but  full  suffering  for  every  sin.  Now  I  would 
trust  this  poetic  instinct  of  fitness  further  than  I  would 
all  the  sympathies  of  the  humanitarians,  all  the  sophis- 
tries of  the  philosophers,  all  the  subtleties  of  the  theo- 
logians, and  all  the  milder  virtues  of  Christianity  itself. 
To  me,  it  is  as  authoritative  as  a  direct  revelation  from 
God,  and  is  equivalent  to  it. 

Again,  nothing  is  more  apparent  in  American  char- 
acter and  American  life  than  a  growing  lack  of  rever- 
ence. It  begins  in  the  family,  and  runs  out  through 
all  the  relations  of  society.  The  parent  may  be  loved, 
but  he  is  much  less  revered  than  in  the  olden  lime. 
Parental  authority  is  cast  off  early,  and  age  and  gray 
hairs,  do  not  command  that  tender  regard  and  that 
careful  respect  that  they  did  in  the  times  of  the  fathers. 
In  politics,  it  is  the  habit  to  speak  in  light  and  disre- 
spectful terms  of  those  whose  experience  gives  them 
the  right  to  counsel  and  command.  Young  men  talk 
flippantly  of  "  fossils,"  and  "  old  fogies,"  and  wonder 
why  men  who  have  been  buried  once  will  not  remain 
quietly  in  their  graves.  Of  course,  when  such  a  spirit 
as  this  prevails,  there  can  be  no  reverence  for  authority, 
no  respect  for  place  and  position,  and  no  genuine  and 
hearty  loyalty.  We  nickname  our  Presidents ;  and  "  old 
Buck"  and  "  old  Abe  "  are  spoken  of  as  familiarly  as 
if  they  were  a  pair  of  old  oxen  we  were  in  the  habit  of 


The  Poetic  Teft.  313 

driving.  Every  man  considers  himself  good  enough  for 
any  place,  and  great  enough  to  judge  every  other  man. 
If  a  pastor  does  not  happen  to  suit  a  parishioner,  the 
parishioner  has  no  feeling  of  reverence  for  him  that 
would  hinder  him  from  telling  him  so  to  his  face. 
Every  mau  considers  himself  not  only  as  good  and  as 
great  as  any  other  man,  but  a  little  better  and  a  little 
greater.  No  being  but  God  is  revered,  and  He,  I  fear, 
not  overmuch.  What  we  call  "  Young  America "  is 
made  up  of  about  equal  parts  of  irreverence,  conceit, 
and  that  popular  moral  quality  familiarly  known  as 
"  brass." 

It  is  the  habit  to  applaud  Young  America — to 
magnify  the  superior  wisdom  and  efficiency  of  young 
men,  to  treat  old  age  familiarly,  and  to  compel  those 
of  superior  years  to  ignore  the  honors  with  which  God 
has  crowned  them.  "  Every  dog  has  his  day,"  we  say, 
and  we  are  impatient  of  a  man  who  declines  to  step 
into  retirement  the  moment  that  his  hair  turns  gray, 
to  make  room  "for  some  specimen  of  Young  America 
with  a  snub  nose  and  a  smart  shirt-collar.  Now,  how- 
ever this  irreverence  may  be  justified — and  it  is  not 
only  justified  but  shamelessly  gloried  in — it  is  not 
poetical.  Poetry  cannot  be  woven  of  improprieties. 
A  people  bowing  with  reverence  to  those  in  authority, 
and  regarding  with  profound  respect  high  official  sta- 
tion; a  family  of  children  clinging,  even  through  along 
14 


314  Leffons  in  Life. 

manhood  and  womanhood,  around  the  form  of  an  aged 
parent  with  assiduous  attentions  and  tender  reverence ; 
a  community  or  a  nation  of  young  men  looking  to  age 
for  Avisdom  and  for  counsel ;  universal  respect  for  years 
on  the  part  of  the  young — these  are,  and  must  forever 
remain,  poetical.  Out  of  reverence  can  be  woven  the 
most  beautiful  pictures  which  the  poet's  brain  can  con- 
ceive ;  but  Young  America  can  no  more  excite  poetic 
sentiment,  or  inspire  poetic  imaginations,  than  the  sham 
Havana  it  smokes,  or  the  mongrel  horse  it  drives. 
There  is  no  poetry  in  an  irreverent  character,  or  in  an 
irreverent  community.  Irreverence  in  any  form  will 
not  stand  the  poetic  test. 

Americans  boast  habitually  ol  their  country,  and 
their  boastings  always  assume  the  poetic  form.  The 
baUot-box  that  they  talk  about  is  the  ballot-box  that 
ought  to  be  and  not  the  ballot-box  that  is.  One  would 
think,  to  hear  what  is  said  of  the  ballot-box,  that  it  lit- 
erally shines  with  glory,  so  that  every  American  free- 
man who  marches  up  to  it  to  deposit  the  paper  em- 
bodiment of  his  will,  glows  like  a  God  in  its  light,  and 
grows  godlike  by  his  act.  If  we  are  to  believe  Mr. 
Whittier,  the  poor  voter  sings  on  election  day : 

"The  proudest  now  is  but  my  peer, 

The  highest  not  more  high  ; 
To-day,  of  all  the  weary  year, 
A  king  of  men  am  I. 


The  Poetic  Teft.  315 

To-day,  alike  are  great  and  small, 

The  nameless  and  the  known ; 
My  palace  is  the  people's  hall, 

The  ballot-box  my  throne  ! " 

This  is  a  very  splendid  sort  of  a  ballot-box,  and  he  is  a 
Tery  fine  sort  of  an  American  who  sings  about  it ;  but 
what  are  the  facts  ?  There  are  a  good  many  chances 
that  the  box  stands  in  a  corner  grocery,  and  that  the 
poor  voter  is  led  up  to  deposit  his  priceless  ballot  so 
drunk  that  he  cannot  walk  without  help.  Mr.  TVhit- 
tier  would  have  us  believe  that  the  poor  voter  sings : 

"To-day  shall  simple  manhood  try 
The  strength  of  gold  and  land ; 
The  wide  world  has  not  wealth  to  buy 
The  power  in  my  right  hand." 

The  truth  is  that  gold  and  land  try  the  very  "  simple 
manhood  "  as  a  rule,  and  very  much  less  than  the  wide 
world  is  sufficient  to  buy  the  power  in  a  great  multi- 
tude of  poor  voters'  hands.  The  poet  sees  what  the 
ballot-box  may  be,  ought  to  be,  and,  in  some  rare  in- 
stances, really  is.  He  unerringly  seizes  upon  the  dig- 
nity and  majesty  of  self-government,  the  equal  rights 
and  privileges  of  manhood,  and  the  dissipation  of  all 
distinctions  in  the  exercise  of  the  political  franchise 
among  freemen.  The  great  truth  of  human  equality 
inspires  him,  and  he  uses  the  ideal  and  possible  ballot- 
box  to  illustrate  it,  and  thus  furnishes  the  standard  by 
which  the  real  ballot-box  is  to  be  judged. 


316  Leffons  in  Life. 

The  poetical  view  of  our  American  system  of  gov- 
ernment is  that  all  men  have  a  voice  in  the  govern- 
ment; that  we  choose  our  own  rulers  and  make  our 
own  laws ;  that  no  man  has  a  hereditary  right  to  rule, 
and  that  men  are  selected  for  the  service  of  the  people, 
in  the  construction  and  the  execution  of  the  laws,  be 
cause  of  their  fitness  for  office.  Outside  of  this  view, 
the  American  system  of  government  has  no  beauty  and 
no  foundation  in  truth  and  justice.  If  we  undertake  to 
argue  with  a  monarchist,  we  never  bring  forward  any 
other.  It  has  in  it  the  essential  element  of  poetry,  be- 
cause it  does  justice  to  the  nature  and  character  of  man, 
and  describes  a  perfect  political  society.  The  poetical 
view  of  the  American  system  of  government,  is,  then, 
the  highest  view.  It  covers  the  sovereignty  of  the 
citizen,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  popular  voice.  Around 
this  idea  the  poets  have  woven  their  noblest  songs ;  but 
again  we  ask  what  are  the  facts  ?  The  people  are  led 
by  the  nose  by  politicians  ;  and  not  one  officer  of  the 
government  in  one  hundred  is  chosen  to  his  place  be- 
cause of  his  fitness  for  it.  The  people  do  not  nominate 
those  who  shall  rule  them,  or  those  who  shall  make 
laws  for  them.  Those  whom  the  politicians  do  not 
nominate  for  office,  nominate  themselves.  The  political 
machinery  of  America  practically  takes  the  choice  of 
rulers  and  officers  out  of  the  hands  of  the  people,  and 
puts  it  into  the  hands  of  a  set  of  self-appointed  leaders, 


The  Poetic  Teft.  317 

whose  patriotism  is  partisanship,  and  whose  principal 
aim  is  to  serve  themselves  and  their  friends,  and  use 
the  people  for  accomplishing  their  purposes.  No  great- 
er fiction  was  ever  conceived  than  the  pleasant  one  that 
the  people  of  America  govern  America.  The  people 
of  America,  except  in  certain  political  revolutions,  have 
always  been  governed  by  a  company  of  self-appointed 
and  irresponsible  men,  whose  principal  work  Avas  to 
grind  axes  for  themselves.  The  poetry  of  American 
politics  is  then  the  severest  standard  by  which  to  judge 
the  reality  of  American  politics. 

Religious  freedom  is  another  poetical  idea  in  which 
the  American  glories.  It  is  essentially  a  poetical 
thought  that  every  man  is  free  to  worship  God  accord- 
ing to  the  dictates  of  his  own  conscience — that  there  is 
no  Church  to  domineer  over  the  State,  and  no  State  to 
domineer  over  the  Church,  that  the  Bible  is  free,  and 
that  each  individual  soul  is  responsible  only  to  its 
Maker.  This  great  and  beautiful  liberty  stirs  us  when 
we  think  of  it  as  music  would  stir  us,  breathed  from 
heaven  itself.  It  is  grand,  God-begotten,  belonging  in 
the  eternal  system  of  things,  full  of  inspiration.  This 
religious  freedom  we  claim  as  Americans.  Some  of 
us  enjoy  it ;  but  the  number  is  not  large.  The  free- 
dom of  the  sect  is  not  greatly  circumscribed,  but  the 
freedom  of  the  individual  is  hardly  greater  in  America 
than  it  is  in  those  countries  where  an  established  church 


318  Leffons  in  Life. 

lays  its  finger  upon  every  man.  I  would  as  soon  be 
the  slave  of  the  Pope  or  the  Archbishop  as  the  slave  of 
a  sect.  I  would  as  readily  put  my  neck  under  the  yoke 
of  a  national  church  as  under  the  yoke  of  a  sect.  It 
does  not  mend  the  matter  that  the  multitude  are  will- 
ing slaves,  and  it  certainly  mars  the  matter  that  the 
sects  themselves  do  what  they  can,  in  too  many  in- 
stances, to  circumscribe  each  the  other's  liberty.  Sects 
are  religiously  and  socially  proscribed  by  sects.  Take 
any  town  in  America  that  contains  half  a  dozen 
churches,  representing  the  same  number  of  religious 
denominations,  and  it  will  be  found  that,  with  one,  and 
that  probably  the  dominant  sect,  it  will  be  all  that  a 
man's  reputation  and  position  are  worth  to  belong  to 
another  sect.  Perfect  religious  freedom  in  America 
there  undoubtedly  is ;  but  it  is  the  possession  of  only 
here  and  there  an  individual.  Prevalent  uncharitable- 
ness  and  bigotry  are  incompatible  with  the  existence  of 
religious  liberty  anywhere. 

It  is  thus  that  the  poetic  instinct  grasps  at  truth 
and  beauty,  and  fitness  and  'harmony,  wherever  it  sees 
it,  and  it  is  thus  that  it  furnishes  us  (subordinate  only 
to  special,  divine  revelation)  with  the  most  delicate 
tests  of  human  institutions,  customs,  and  actions.  Lit- 
mus-paper does  not  more  faithfully  detect  the  presence 
of  an  acid  than  the  poetic  instinct  detects  the  false  and 
foul  in  all  that  makes  up  human  life.  All  that  is  grand 


The  Poetic  Teft.  319 

and  good,  all  that  is  heroic  and  unselfish,  all  that  is 
pure  and  true,  all  that  is  firm  and  strong,  all  that  is 
beautiful  and  harmonious,  is  essentially  poetical,  and 
the  opposite  of  all  these  is  at  once  rejected  by  the  un- 
sophisticated poetic  instinct. 

Verily  the  poets  of  the  world  are  the  prophets  of 
humanity !  They  forever  reach  after  and  foresee  the 
ultimate  good.  They  are  evermore  building  the  para- 
dise that  is  to  be,  painting  the  millennium  that  is  to 
come,  restoring  the  lost  image  of  God  in  the  human 
soul.  When  the  world  shall  reach  the  poet's  ideal,  it 
will  arrive  at  perfection ;  and  much  good  will  it  do  the 
world  to  measure  itself  by  this  ideal,  and  struggle  to 
lift  the  real  to  its  lofty  level. 


LESSON  XXIII. 

THE  FOOD   OF   LIFE. 

"To  the  soul  time  doth  perfection  give, 

And  adds  fresh  lustre  to  her  beauty  still; 
And  makes  her  in  eternal  youth  to  live 

Like  her  which  nectar  to  the  Gods  doth  fill. 
The  more  she  lives,  the  more  she  feeds  on  truth ; 

The  more  she  feeds,  the  strength  doth  more  increase ; 
And  what  is  strength,  but  an  eftcct  in  youth 
Which,  if  time  nurse,  how  can  it  ever  cease  ?  " 
SIB  J.  DA  VIES. 

AHORSE  can  live,  and  do  a  good  deal  of  dull 
work,  on  hay;  but  spirit  and  speed  require 
grain.  There  is  no  self-supplied,  perennial  fountain 
•within  the  animal  that  enables  him  to  expend  more  in 
the  way  of  muscular  power  than  he  receives  in  the  way 
of  muscular  stimulus  and  nourishment.  Food,  in  its 
quality  and  amount,  up  to  the  limit  of  healthful  diges- 
tion, is  set  over  against,  and  exactly  measures,  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  the  quality  and  amount  of  labor 


The  Food  of  Life.  321 

of  which  a  horse  is  capable.  So,  a  cow  can  live  on 
straw  and  corn-stalks ;  but  it  would  not  be  reasonable 
to  suppose  that  she  would  give  any  considerable 
amount  of  milk  upon  so  slender  a  diet.  We  do  not 
expect  rich  milk,  in  large  quantities,  to  be  yielded  by  a 
cow  that  is  not  bountifully  fed  with  the  most  nutri- 
cious  food.  The  same  fact  attaches  to  land.  We  can- 
not get  out  of  land  more  than  there  is  in  it ;  and  hav- 
ing once  exhausted  it,  we  are  obliged  to  put  into  it,  in 
fertilizers,  all  we  wish  to  take  from  it  in  the  form  of 
vegetable  growths.  Wherever  there  is  an  outgo,  there 
must  be  an  equal  income,  or  exhaustion  will  be  the  in- 
evitable consequence. 

The  principle  which  these  familiar  facts  so  forcibly 
illustrate  is  a  very  important  one,  in  its  connection 
with  human  life.  We  cannot  get  any  more  out  of  hu- 
man life  than  we  put  into  it.  All  civilization  is  an  illus- 
tration of  what  can  be  accomplished  by  feeding  the  hu- 
man mind.  All  -barbaric  and  savage  life  is  an  illustra- 
tion of  mental  and  moral  starvation.  The  differences 
among  mankind  are  the  results  of  differences  in  the 
nourishment  upon  which  their  minds  are  fed.  Eunice 
Williams,  who  was  taken  captive  by  the  savages  of 
Canada  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  was  the  daughter 
of  a  most  godly  minister,  of  the  old  Puritan  stamp; 
but  a  very  few  years  of  savage  feeding  made  h  .r  a 
savage.  Her  mind  was  cut  off  from  all  other  varieties 
14* 


322  Leffons  in  Life. 

of  nourishment,  and  could  only  tend  to  savage  issues. 
She  kept  a  knowledge  of  her  history,  and  many  years 
after  her  capture  revisited  her  home,  accompanied  by 
her  tawny  husband ;  but  no  persuasions  could  call  her 
from  her  savage  life  and  companionship.  The  conver- 
sion of  men  from  heathenism  to  Christianity  and  Chris- 
tian civilization  is  accomplished  by  introducing  new 
food  into  their  moral  and  mental  diet.  "  A  change  of 
pastures  makes  fat  calves,"  we  are  told ;  and  any  one 
who  has  noticed  the  effect  upon  an  active  mind  of  its 
translation  from  one  variety  of  social  and  moral  influ- 
ences to  another,  will  recognize  the  truth  of  the 
proverb. 

If  a  man  will  call  up  his  acquaintances,  one  by  one, 
and  mentally  measure  the  results  of  their  lives,  he  will 
be  astonished  to  see  how  small  those  results  are.  He 
will  also  see  that  they  are,  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances, in  the  exact  proportion  to  the  amount,  and  in 
correspondence  with  the  variety,  of  the  food  they  take 
in.  It  is  astonishing  to  see  how  little  it  takes  to  keep 
some  people,  and  how  very  little  such  people  become 
on  their  diet.  A  man  who  shuts  himself  away  from  all 
social  life,  and  lays  by  his  reading,  and  declines  all  food 
that  addresses  itself  to  his  sensational  and  emotional 
nature,  and  refuses  that  bread  of  life  which  comes 
down  from  heaven,  and  feeds  himself  only  with  relation 
to  the  accomplishment  of  some  petty  work,  will  become 


The  Food  of  Life.  323 

as  thiii  and  scrawny,  mentally  and  morally,  as  the  body 
of  a  half-starved  Hottentot.  It  is  the  one  curse  of 
rural  life  that  it  does  not  have  a  sufficiency  and  a  suffi- 
cient variety  of  food.  The  same  scenes,  the  same  faces, 
the  same  limited  range  of  books,  the  same  dull  friends, 
exhausted  long  ago — no  new  nourishment  for  powers 
cloyed  with  their  never-varying  food — these  are  what 
make  rural  life,  as  it  is  usually  lived,  unattractive  and 
most  unfruitful.  The  fruits — the  issues — of  this  life 
cannot  be  greater  than  the  food  it  gets,  and  the  food  is 
very  scanty.  It  is  not  necessary  that  it  should  be  so, 
and  sometimes  it  is  not  so ;  but  the  rule  of  common 
rural  life  is  insufficiency  of  mental  food,  and  conse- 
quent poverty  of  manifestation. 

The  utilitarian  habits  of  New  England,  originating 
in  necessity,  and  far  outliving  the  circumstances  in 
which  they  had  their  birth,  have  tended  more  than 
any  other  cause  to  make  New  England  character  un- 
lovable. The  saving  of  half-pence  to  add  to  one's  store, 
and  the  denial  to  one's  self  and  children  of  that  which 
will  delight  the  famished  senses,  and  stir  the  thin  emo- 
tions, and  enlarge  tne  range  ot  experience,  is  the  direct 
way  of  arriving  at  meanness  of  life.  There  are  those 
who  will  not  allow  their  families  to  cultivate  flowers, 
because  flowers  are  not  useful,  and  they  involve  a  waste 
of  time  and  land.  They  will  not  have  an  instrument 
of  music  in  their  houses,  because  music  is  not  useful, 


324  Leffons  in  Life. 

and  it  involves  an  expenditure  of  money,  and  the 
throwing  away  of  a  great  deal  of  time.  They  will  not 
buy  pictures,  because  pictures  are  not  useful,  and  be- 
cause they  cost  money  ;  so  that  many  a  rich  man's  parlor 
is  as  bare  of  ornament  as  a  tomb  would  be.  They  will 
not  attend  a  lecture,  because,  though  it  might  furnish 
them  with  mental  food  for  a  month,  it  would  not 
bring  their  shillings  back  to  them.  They  will  not  attend 
a  concert,  because  a  concert  is  not  useful.  They  will 
not  hire  a  minister  who  possesses  fine  gifts — gifts  that 
would  enrich  them  mentally,  morally,  and  socially — be- 
cause they  cannot  aiford  it.  So  they  take  lip  with 
ministerial  dry  nursing,  and  one  another's  dry  expe- 
riences, as  spiritual  food,  in  order  to  save  a  few  more 
dollars. 

There  are  a  few  of  the  severer  virtues  that  will  live 
upon  a  diet  of  this  kind.  Endurance,  industry,  a  nega- 
tive purity,  thrift,  integrity — these  can  live,  and  do  live, 
after  a  sort,  on  a  plain  and  scanty  diet,  and  these,  as 
we  know,  abound  in  New  England.  But  generosity, 
hospitality,  charity,  liberality — all  those  qualities  that 
enrich  the  character,  and  all  those  virtues  that  enlarge 
it  and  give  it  fulness  and  beauty  and  attractiveness, 
are  always  wanting  among  the  class. that  sacrifices 
every  thing  for  use.  More  cannot  be  got  out  of  any 
life  than  is  put  into  it.  Modern  chemistry  analyzes  soils, 
and  ascertains  exactly  what  they  need  to  make  them 


The  Food  of  Life.  325 

produce  bountifully  of  any  kind  of  grains  and  fruits. 
Wheat  cannot  be  grown  on  land  that  does  not  contain 
the  constituents  of  wheat ;  and  if  it  be  desirable  to  grow 
wheat,  those  constituents  must  be  added  to  the  soil. 
If  any  mental  soil  does  not  produce  those  vital  mani- 
festations and  results  which  characterize  a  large,  rich, 
and  attractive  life,  then  the  constituents  of  that  life 
must  be  introduced  as  nutriment. 

One  of  the  common  experiences  in  the  world  of 
authorship  is"  the  writing  of  a  single  successful  book, 
and  the  failure  of  all  that  follow  it  from  the  same  pen. 
The  explanation  is,  that  the  first  book  is  the  result  of 
a  life  of  feeding,  and  those  that  follow  it  come  from  an 
exhausted  mind.  There  are  many  writers  who,  as  soon 
as  they  begin  to  write,  stop  feeding,  and  in  a  very  short 
time  write  themselves  out.  The  temptation  of  the 
writer  is  to  seclusion.  His  labors  in  a  measure  unfit 
him  for  social  life,  and  for  mingling  in  the  every-day 
affairs  of  men.  He  is  apt  to  become  warped  in  his 
sentiments,  and  morbid  in  his  feelings,  and  to  grow 
small  and  weak  as  his  works  increase.  The  greatest 
possible  blessing  to  an  author  is  compulsory  contact 
with  the  world — every-day  necessity  to  meet  and  min- 
gle with  men  and  women — social  responsibilities  and 
business  cares,  and  the  consequent  necessity  of  keep- 
ing up  with  the  events  and  the  literature  of  his  time. 
An  author  in  this  position  not  only  keeps  a  healthy 


326  Leffons  in  Life. 

mind,  but  he  takes  in  food  every  day  which  his  indi- 
viduality assimilates  to  itself,  and  utters  as  the  expres- 
sion of  its  life.  I  have  no  belief  that  Shakspeare  would 
ever  have  given  us  his  immortal  plays,  but  for  the 
necessities  which  brought  him  so  much  into  contact 
with  men.  Outside  of  his  authorship,  he  lived  an  active, 
practical  life — trod  the  boards  of  a  theatre,  managed 
men,  looked  after  his  money,  rubbed  against  society 
in  multiplied  ways — and  kept  himself  strong,  healthy, 
and  abundantly  fed  with  that  food  which  was  necessary 
to  him. 

Shakspeare  had  genius,  it  is  true,  but  genius  with- 
out food  is  quite  as  helpless  as  a  barren  acre.  All  great 
geniuses  are  immense  feeders.  All  true  and  healthy 
geniuses  fasten  for  food  upon  every  thing  and  every 
body.  Their  antennae  are  always  out  for  the  apprehen- 
sion of  ideas,  and  their  mouths  always  open  for  their 
reception.  Walter  Scott  was  engaged  in  the  active 
duties  of  the  legal  profession  when  writing  his  novels, 
and  there  was  not  a  legend  of  Scotland,  nor  a  bit  of 
history  or  gossip,  nor  an  old  story-teller  that  lived 
within  fifty  miles  of  him,  that  he  did  not  lay  under 
tribute  for  mental  food.  It  is  declared,  to  the  everlast- 
ing disgrace  of  Goethe,  that  he  practiced  upon  the  affec- 
tions of  women,  even  to  old  age,  that  he  might  gather 
food  for  poetry.  Byron  traversed  Europe  in  search 
of  adventure,  and  rummaged  the  scenes  of  legend  and 


The  Food  of  Life.  327 

story  for  food  for  his  voracious  senses  and  sensibilities. 
His  Childe  Harold  is  nothing  but  the  record  of  his 
tireless  foraging.  All  men  who  have  produced  much 
have  fed  bountifully. 

The  writers  are  few  in  whom  we  do  not  notice 
something  painfully  wanting.  We  do  not  always  un- 
derstand what  it  is,  but  we  know  that,  while  we  may 
accord  to  them  good  sense,  and  even  genius,  they  fail  to 
satisfy  us.  There  is  some  good  thing  which  they  lack — 
something  unbalanced  and  partial  and  one-sided  about 
them.  We  presume  that  this  is  often  the  result  of  a 
constitutional  defect,  but  in  most  instances  it  is  attribu- 
table to  insufficient  nourishment  in  some  department 
of  their  nature.  "  All  but,"  is  the  appropriate  epitaph 
for  the  tombstone  of  many  an  author ;  and  if  we  look 
carefully  into  his  history  we  shah1  find  an  answer  to  the 
question :  "  All  but  what  ?  "  We  shall  find,  perhaps, 
that  he  is  a  recluse,  that  his  social  nature  is  not  fed  at 
all,  and  that  he  is,  of  course,  unsympathetic.  This  is 
a  very  frequent  cause  of  dissatisfaction  with  an  author, 
as  it  always  gives  a  morbid  tinge  to  his  writings. 
Dickens  is  eminently  a  social  man,  and  eminently 
healthy  and  sympathetic.  Possibly  an  author  may 
starve  his  senses  and  become  purely  reflective,  yield- 
ing up  his  points  of  contact  with  the  outside  world, 
and  shutting  the  channels  by  which  the  qualities  of 
things  find  their  way  to  his  mind.  Not  unfrequently 


328  Leflbns  in  Life. 

a  man's  domestic  affections  may  be  starved,  or  ill  fed, 
and  if  so,  the  fact  is  sure  to  be  betrayed  in  his  writings. 
And  if  a  writer's  religious  nature  be  starved,  it  inva- 
riably vitiates  all  his  characteristic  works.  No  man 
who  shuts  out  God  and  heaven  from  his  life  can  write 
without  betraying  the  poverty  of  his  diet.  If  an  au- 
thor would  write  satisfactorily,  touching  all  kinds  of 
human  nature  and  all  sides  of  human  nature,  he  must 
feed  every  department  of  his  own  nature,  for  he  has 
nothing  to  give  that  he  does  not  receive. 

As  in  animal,  so  in  mental  life,  there  are  gorman- 
dizing and  gluttony,  tending  always  to  paralysis  of 
voluntary  effort.  The  devouring  of  facts,  as  they  are 
found  both  in  nature  and  in  books,  indulgence  in  social 
pleasures  immoderately  and  constantly,  pietism  that 
feeds  exclusively  upon  the  things  of  religion,  the  feast- 
ing of  the  imagination  upon  the  creations  of  fiction — 
all  these  are  debilitating ;  and  a  blessed  thing  to  the 
world  is  it  that  they  unfit  the  mind  for  writing  at  all, 
as  the  overfeeding  of  the  body  unfits  its  organs  for 
labor.  Plethoric  minds  do  not  trouble  the  world  with 
books,  or  with  conversation,  or  with  preaching.  Activ- 
ity simply  demands  food  enough,  and  in  sufficient 
variety,  to  feed  its  powers  while  operative,  from  day 
to  day.  This  is  the  reason  why  immensely  learned  men 
have  rarely  done  much  for  the  world.  Many  of  them 
have  won  reputations,  like  remarkably  fat  steers,  for 


The  Food  of  Lite.  329 

breadth  of  back  and  depth  of  brisket,  but  they  are 
never  known  to  move  more  than  their  own  enormous 
bulks.  Beyond  a  certain  point  of  mental  feeding,  over 
and  above  the  necessities  of  labor,  the  mind  gets  sleepy 
and  clumsy. 

I  have  alluded  to  authors,  particularly,  because, 
unlike  the  world  in  general,  they  give  form  and  record 
to  their  life.  The  masses  of  men  live  as  authors  live, 
but  their  lives  are  not  put  down  in  books,  so  that  the 
public  may  read  and  measure  them.  We  will  suppose 
that  two  men  are  fed  upon  the  same  diet.  Each  shall 
have  sufficient  food  for  his  religious,  social,  esthetic, 
domestic,  sensational,  and  emotional  natures,  yet  only 
one  of  them  shall  embody  in  books  the  life  which  he 
draws  from  these  varieties  of  nourishment.  The  other 
lives  essentially  the  same  life,  but  it  fails  of  record.  It 
may  be  as  rich  and  characteristic,  in  every  particular, 
as  that  of  the  author,  but  it  fails  of  artistic  form  be- 
cause, perhaps,  he  lacks  the  peculiar  mental  gift  re- 
quired for  its  construction.  So  the  real  life  of  the 
author  and  the  life  of  his  reader  may  be  the  same, 
the  one  having  advantage  over  the  other  in  no  particu- 
lar, and  the  fact  that  one  is  embodied  in  artistic  forms 
conferring  upon  it  no  essential  excellence.  What  I 
have  said  about  authors,  therefore,  applies  to  all  man- 
kind, engaged  in  whatever  calling  or  profession.  If 
any  portion  of  any  man's  nature  be  not  well  fed,  he  will 


330  Leflbns  in  Life. 

betray  the  fact  in  his  life.  Poverty  of  food  in  any 
particular  will  surely  bring  poverty  of  manifestation 
in  that  department  of  life  which  is  deprived  of  its 
natural  nourishment. 

A  familiar  illustration  of  the  failure  of  a  life  to  se- 
cure its  appropriate  food,  will  be  found  in  men  and  wo- 
men who  live  unmarried.  An  old  bachelor  will  sooner 
or  later  betray  the  fact  that  his  finer  affections  are 
starved.  It  is  next  to  impossible  for  him  to  hide  from 
the  world  the  wrong  to  which  he  is  subjecting  himself. 
His  character  will  invariably  show  that  it  is  warped 
and  weak  and  lame,  and  his  life  will  be  barren  of  all 
those  manifestations  which  flow  from  domestic  affections 
abundantly  fed.  Here  and  there,  one  like  Washington 
Irving  will  nourish  a  love  transplanted  to  Heaven,  and 
bring  around  him  the  sweet  faces  and  delicate  natures 
of  women,  to  minister  to  a  thirsting  heart,  and  preserve, 
as  he  did,  his  geniality  and  tenderness  to  the  last ;  but 
such  as  he  are  comparatively  few.  An  old  bachelor, 
voluntarily  single,  always  betrays  a  nature  badly  fed  in 
one  of  its  important  departments.  So,  too,  those  who 
marry,  but  who  are  not  blest  with  children,  betray  the 
lack  of  food.  Many  of  these  hunger  through  life  for 
children  to  feed  their  affections,  and  take  on  peculiari- 
ties that  betray  the  fact  that  something  is  wrong  with 
them.  Some  adopt  children  in  order  to  supply  a  want 
which  seems  imperative,  and  others  take  pets  of  differ- 


The  Food  of  Life.  331 

ent  kinds  to  their  bosoms,  ranging  through  the  scale 
from  birds  to  bull-dogs.  It  is  a  familiar  trick  of  starved 
faculties  and  affections  to  take  on  a  morbid  appetite, 
and  feed  themselves  on  the  strangest  of  supplies. 

So,  if  a  man  would  live  a  full  and  generous  life,  he 
must  supply  it  with  a  full  and  generous  diet.  So  far  as 
his  ability  will  go,  he  should  make  his  home  the  em- 
bodiment of  his  best  taste.  There  -should  be  abundant 
meaning  hi  its  architecture.  There  should  be  pictures 
upon  its  walls,  and  books  upon  its  shelves  and  tables. 
All  the  domestic  and  social  affections  should  be  abun- 
dantly fed  there.  His  table  should  be  a  gathering  place 
for  friends.  Music  should  minister  to  him.  He  should 
bring  himself  into  contact  with  the  great  and  wise  and 
good,  who  have  embalmed  their  lives  in  the  varied 
forms  of  art.  The  facts  that  li ve  in  the  earth  under  his 
feet,  the  beauty  that  spreads  itself  around  him,  and  all 
those  truths  which  appeal  to  his  religious  nature,  are 
food  which  should  minister  to  his  life.  An  irreligious 
man — no  matter  what  his  genius  may  be — is  always  a 
starveling.  An  unsocial  man  can  by  no  possibility  lead 
a'true  life.  A  man's  nature  should  be  thrown  wide 
open  at  every  point,  to  drink  in  the  nourishment  that 
comes  from  the  healthy  sources  of  supply ;  and  thus 
only  may  his  life  become  abundantly  rich  and  beauti- 
ful. I  repeat  the  proposition  that  I  started  with :  we 
cannot  get  more  out  of  human  life  than  we  put  into  it. 


332  Leffons  in  Life. 

There  is  another  aspect  of  this  subject  that  I  have 
barely  space  to  allude  to.  The  illustration  with  which 
this  article  opens,  touching  the  effects  of  hay  and  grain 
respectively  upon  the  life  of  the  horse,  suggests  that 
the  food  with  which  our  bodies  are  nourished  may  have 
an  important  bearing  upon  our  mental  and  moral  life. 
Of  this  I  have  no  doubt.  Coarse  food,  made  of  mate- 
rial but  feebly  vitalized,  makes  coarse  men  and  women. 
Muscular  tissues  not  formed  from  choice  material, 
brains  built  of  poor  stuff,  nervous  fibres  to  which  the 
finest  and  most  delicate  food  has  not  ministered,  are 
not  the  instruments  of  the  highest  grade  of  mental  life. 
The  dispensation  of  sawdust  is  passed  away.  It  is 
pretty  well  understood  that  the  most  complicated,  the 
noblest,  and  the  finest  creature  in  the  world  requires 
the  best  food  the  world  can  produce ;  and  that  he  re- 
quires it  in  great  variety.  If  a  man  leads  simply  an 
animal  life — eating,  working,  and  sleeping — let  him 
feed  as  animals  do ;  but  if  he  lives  a  life  above  animals, 
as  a  social  and  religious  being,  then  let  him  take  food 
that  gives  pleasure  to  his  palate,  and  pluck  and  power 
to  all  the  instruments  of  his  mind.  Hay  may  answer 
very  well  for  a  mind  that  moves  at  the  rate  of  only 
three  miles  an  hour ;  but  a  mile  was  never  yet  made 
"inside  of  2:40  "  without  grain. 


LESSON    XXIV. 

HALF-FINISHED     WOEK. 

"Ah  God  !  well,  art  is  long! 
And  life  is  short  and  fleeting. 

What  headaches  have  I  felt  and  what  heart-beating, 
When  critical  desire  was  strong. 
How  hard  it  is  the  ways  and  means  to  master 
By  which  one  gains  each  fountain  head  I 
And  ere  one  yet  has  half  the  journey  sped 
The  poor  fool  dies — O  sad  disaster ! " 

BROOKS'  TBANSLATION  OF  FAUBT. 

MANKIND  are  "nothing,  if  not  critical;"  and 
nothing  would  seem  to  be  criticism  with  them 
but  fault-finding.  It  is  astonishing  to  see  what  a  num- 
ber of  architects  there  are  in  the  world — how  many 
people  there  are  who  feel  competent  to  give  an  opinion 
upon  buildings  in  course  of  erection  on  the  public 
streets.  If  a  dwelling  is  going  up,  there  is  not  a  day 
of  its  progress  in  which  its  builder  or  architect  is  not 


334  Leffons  in  Life. 

convicted  of  being  a  fool,  by  any  number  of  wise  peo- 
ple who  judge  him  on  the  evidence  of  a  half-finished 
structure.  When  the  dwelling  is  completed,  it  usually 
"  looks  better  than  they  ever  supposed  it  could'; "  but 
they  learn  nothing  from  this,  though  the  proverb  that 
"only  fools  criticize  half-finished  work"  is  a  good  deal 
older  than  they  are.  Every  man  who  builds  is  obliged 
to  take  this  running  fire  of  fault-finding.  Passing  a 
new  church  recently,  in  the  company  of  an  architect,  I 
asked  him  what  he  thought  of  the  building.  "  I  can 
tell  better  when  the  staging  is  down,"  was  his  reply. 
He  knew  enough  not  to  criticize  half-finished  work, 
while  probably  a  hundred  men,  knowing  nothing  of 
architecture  whatever,  had,  during  that  very  day,  freely 
given  their  opinion  of  the  building  in  the  most  unquali- 
fied way. 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  the  reader  of  this  essay  that 
nearly  all  the  judgments  that  are  made  up  and  ex- 
pressed in  this  world  relate  to  half-finished  work  ?  We 
hear  a  great  deal  of  criticism  indulged  in  with  regard 
to  American  society.  I  have  no  doubt  that  this  criti- 
cism is  just,  in  a  certain  sense,  but  American  society 
is  only  a  half-finished  structure.  If  it  had  arrived  at 
the  end  of  improvement  and  growth ;  if  the  elements 
which  enter  into  it  had  already  organized  themselves 
in  their  highest  form  ;  if  the  creation  of  a  high,  refined, 
and  beautiful  society  were  not  a  thing  of  time ;  if  such 


Half-Finifhed  Work.  335 

a  society  did  not  depend  upon  the  operation  of  forces 
that  require  a  great  range  of  influences  and  circum- 
stances, then  the  criticism  might  be  entirely  just;  but 
it  is  as  unreasonable  to  expect  a  high  grade  of  social 
life  in  America,  at  this  point  of  American  history,  as  it 
is  to  expect  perfection  in  a  church  before  the  carpenters 
get  out  of  it,  and  the  staging  is  down.  "Wealth,  learn- 
ing, culture,  leisure — these  cannot  be  so  combined  in 
this  country  yet  as  to  give  us  the  highest  grade  and 
style  of  social  life.  We  are  all  at  work  upon  the  struc- 
ture, and  unless  American  ideas  are  incurably  bad,  and 
we  are  faithless  to  our  duties,  American  society  will 
be  good  when  the  work  upon  it  is  completed.  No 
society  is  to  be  condemned  so  long  as  it  is  progressive 
toward  a  goodly  completeness. 

Men  and  women  are  always  judging  one  another 
before  they  are  finished.  A  raw  boy,  with  only  the 
undeveloped  elements  of  manhood  in  him,  is  denounced 
as  a  dunce.  A  light-hearted,  sportive  girl,  with  an  in- 
continent overflow  of  spirits,  is  condemned  as  a  hoiden. 
Neither  boy  nor  girl  is  half  made.  There  is  only  the 
frame-work  of  the  man  and  woman  up,  and  it  does  not 
appear  what  they  are  to  become.  A  young  man  is 
wild,  and  judged  accordingly.  It  is  not  remembered 
that  there  are  various  modifying  influences  to  be 
brought  to  bear  upon  him,  before  he  will  be  a  man. 
We  see  the  bold  outline  of  a  new  house,  and  we  say 


336  Leffons  in  Life. 

that  it  is  not  beautiful.  Soon,  however,  a  piazza  is 
built  here,  and  a  dormer  is  pushed  out  there,  and 
gracefully  modelled  chimneys  pierce  the  roof,  and  cor- 
nice and  verandah  and  tower  are  added,  until  the 
structure  stands  before  us  complete  in  beauty,  conven- 
ience, and  strength.  When  we  condemn  a  young 
man  we  do  not  stop  to  think  that  he  is  not  done, — 
that  there  is  a  wife  to  place  upon  one  side  of  him,  and 
children  to  be  grouped  upon  the  other,  and  sundry  re- 
lations to  be  adjusted  before  we  can  tell  any  thing 
about  him  at  all. 

There  is  nothing  more  common  in  experience  and 
observation  than  the  partiality  felt  by  young  and  un- 
married men  for  the  society  of  married  women,  and 
the  love  of  unmarried  young  women  for  the  society  of 
married  men.  I  suppose  that  neai-ly  every  young  man 
and  young  woman  has  a  time  of  feeling  that  all  the  de- 
sirable matches  in  the  world  are  disposed  of,  and  that 
the  marriageable  young  persons  left  are  really  very  in- 
sipid companions.  This  is  entirely  natural,  but  exceed- 
ingly unreasonable.  To  expect  a  man  to  be  as  much 
of  a  man  without  a  wife  as  with  one,  is  just  as  reason- 
able as  to  expect  a  half-finished  house  to  be  as  beautiful 
as  a  finished  one.  It  is  impossible  for  an  unmarried 
man,  other  things  being  equal,  to  be  as  agreeable  a 
companion  as  a  married  man;  and  lest  I  be  sus- 
pected of  a  jest  in  this  statement,  I  wish  to  assure  my 


Half-Finifhed  Work.  337 

reader  that  I  am  entirely  in  earnest.  Intimate  contact 
with  the  nature  of  a  good  woman,  in  the  relation  of 
marriage,  is  just  as  necessary  to  the  completeness  of 
manhood,  as  the  details  of  an  architectural  design  are 
to  the  homely  conveniences  around  which  they  are 
made  to  cluster.  Every  man  is  a  better  man  for  having 
children,  and  the  more  he  exti  ids  those  relations  which 
grow  out  of  the  family  life,  the  more  does  he  open  up 
to  culture  and  carry  to  completeness  the  very  choicest 
portions  of  his  manly  nature.  It  is  natural,  therefore, 
that  the  unmarried  woman  should  become  possessed  of 
the  notion  that  all  the  desirable  men  are  married,  and 
that  the  unmarried  man  should  be  the  subject  of  a  sim- 
ilar mistake  with  relation  to  the  other  sex.  It  must 
be  remembered  that  men  and  women  are  made  desir- 
able by  matrimony,  and  that  half-finished  work  should 
not  be  subjected  to  any  sweeping  judgments. 

Men  and  women  are  always  turning  out  differently 
from  what  we  expected  and  predicted  they  would. 
Men  who  have  been  laughed  at  and  slighted  during  all 
their  eai-ly  life,  become,  quite  to  our  surprise,  very  im- 
portant and  notable  persons,  and  we  are  mortified  to 
ascertain  that  we  have  been  criticizing  half-finished 
men.  The  college  faculty  give  a  diploma  to  some  very 
slow  young  man,  with  great  reluctance,  but  in  the 
course  of  twenty  years  he  completes  himself,  and  when 
he  comes  back  to  honor  them  with  a  visit  they  make 
15 


338  Leffons  in  Life. 

very  low  bows  to  him.  All  young  people  are  pieces  t>f 
unfinished  work,  to  be  judged  very  carefully,  and  al- 
ways to  be  regarded  as  incomplete.  We  can  say  that 
we  do  not  like  their  general  style,  as  we  would  say 
that  we  do  not  like  the  style  of  an  unfinished  house. 
Grecian  may  not  be  to  our  liking,  and  we  may  prefer 
Gothic. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  Christian  Church  suffers 
more  from  the  judgments  of  those  who  criticize  unfin- 
ished work  than  any  organized  body  of  men  and  wo- 
men. Here  is  an  organization  whose  members  do  not 
pretend  to  perfection  ;  whose  whole  theory  forbids  any 
such  idea.  They  are  disciples — learners  of  the  Divine 
Master.  They  are  members  of  a  school  in  which  none 
ever  arrives  at  fulness  of  knowledge.  Their  prayer  is 
that  they  may  grow  ;  and  they  know  that  if  they  have 
the  true  life  in  them  they  will  grow  while  they  live.  If 
there  is  one  thing  in  the  world  of  which  they  are  pain- 
fully conscious,  it  is  that  they  are  pieces  of  unfinished 
work.  Some  of  the  members  are  very  much  lower  in 
the  scale  of  completeness  than  others.  In  some  there 
is  only  a  confused  pile  of  timber  and  bricks.  In  others 
only  a  part  of  the  frame  is  up,  or  the  walls  are  hardly 
more  than  begun.  In  others,  perhaps,  the  roof  is  on. 
In  comparatively  few  do  we  see  the  outlines  all  defined 
and  the  rooms  in  a  good  degree  of  completeness.  In 
none  of  them  is  there  a  perfected  structure,  and  none 


Half-Finiflied  Work.  339 

see  and  acknowledge  their  incompleteness  more  than 
those  whose  characters  are  farthest  advanced  toward 
perfection. 

Now  I  put  it  to  the  world  outside  of  the  Christian 
Church  to  say  if  it  has  been  entirely  fair,  and  just  in  its 
judgments  of  the  Church.  Has  it  not  judged  Chris- 
tianity by  these  imperfect  disciples,  and  has  it  not  con- 
demned these  imperfect  disciples  because  they  are  not 
what  they  never  pretended  to  be  ?  Has  it  not  criti- 
cized half-finished  work,  and  condemned,  not  only  the 
work,  but  Christianity  itself,  because  this  work  was  not 
up  to  the  sample  ?  It  is  very  common  to  hear  men 
say  that  such  and  such  a  Christian  is  no  better  than 
the  average  of  people  outside  of  the  Christian  Church, 
thus  condemning  the  genuineness  of  his  character  be- 
cause he  is  not  a  perfect  Christian.  A  house  is  a  house, 
even  if  it  be  only  half-finished.  At  least,  it  is  not  any 
thing  else  ;  and  as  Christians  cannot  by  any  possibility 
be  perfected  on  the  instant,  it  follows  that  the  large 
majority  of  Christians  must  be  in  various  stages  of 
progress — nay,  that  most  of  this  large  majority  are  not 
even  half-finished.  The  Christian  Church  itself  is  a 
piece  of  unfinished  work,  and  every  individual  member 
is  the  same.  It  is  not  pretended  that  either  is  any 
thing  else.  I  never  knew  a  Christian  to  set  himself 
up  as  a  pattern.  So  far  as  I  know,  they  are  very  shy 
of  pretension,  and  deprecate  nothing  more  than  the 


340  Leffons  in  Life. 

thought  that  anybody  should  take  them  for  finished 
specimens  of  the  work  of  Christianity  in  human  life  and 
character. 

A  sermon  upon  any  important  subject  is  always 
a  piece  of  unfinished  work.  I  once  heard  a  famous 
preacher  say  that  he  could  preach  throughout  his  whole 
life  on  the  text,  "  the  heart  is  deceitful  above  all  things 
and  desperately  wicked,"  and  even  then  have  some- 
thing left  to  say.  The  statement  illustrates  the  many- 
sidedness  of  truth,  and  the  multitude  of  its  relations  to 
the  life  of  the  individual  and  the  world.  Any  sensible 
preacher  knows  that,  within  the  compass  of  a  single 
sermon,  he  can  only  present  a  single  aspect  of  a  great 
and  important  truth,  yet  he  is  criticized  as  if  it  had 
been  expected  that  the  work  of  a  dozen  volumes  could 
be  crowded  into  the  utterances  of  half  an  hour.  What 
is  called  an  "  exhaustive  "  sermon  would  exhaust  an 
audience  long  before  it  would  its  subject.  A  sermon 
is  only  the  dab  of  a  brush  upon  a  great  picture,  and  if 
it  gives  a  single  striking  view  of  a  single  great  truth, 
it  accomplishes  its  object.  It  must  necessarily  be  an 
unfinished  piece  as  regards  its  exposition  of  truth  ;  and 
the  same  may  be  said  of  any  essay  on  any  subject. 
Every  writer  begins  in  the  middle  of  things,  and  leaves 
off  in  the  middle  ot  things  ;  and  every  thing  he  writes 
relates  at  some  point  to  every  thing  that  everybody 
has  written.  No  man  cleans  up  the  field  over  which 


Half-Finifhcd  Work.  341 

he  walks,  and  leaves  nothing  to  be  said ;  and  the  best 
we  do  is  unfinished  work. 

There  are  those  who,  in  view  of  the  sin  and  suffer- 
ing which  appear  on  every  hand,  are  moved  to  impugn 
the  goodness  and  love  of  Him  who  created  the  world 
by  His  power,  and  sustains  and  orders  it  by  His  provi- 
dence. Millions  are  whelmed  in  the  darkness  of  hea- 
thenism ;  other  millions  are  bound  by  the  chains  of 
slavery  ;  the  oppressor  is  clothed  in  purple  and  fine  linen; 
the  beautiful  and  innocent  are  the  victims  of  treach- 
erous lust ;  children  cry  for  bread  beneath  the  windows 
of  luxury;  justice  is  denied  to  the  poor  by  men  who 
take  bribes  of  wealth;  and  deceit  circumvents  and 
baffles  honor.  Such  a  world  as  this  the  critics  condemn 
as  a  failure,  which  reflects  alike  upon  the  benevolence 
and  power  of  its  Maker ;  but  these  men  have  an  emi- 
nent place  among  the  fools  who  criticize  half-finished 
work.  If  they  could  have  witnessed  the  creation  of 
the  earth,  and  watched  it  through  all  the  processes  by 
which  it  was  prepared  for  the  reception  of  the  human 
race,  they  would  doubtless  have  been  quite  as  critical 
as  they  are  now,  and  quite  as  unreasonable.  Suppose 
a  man  should  visit  his  pear-trees  in  midsummer,  and 
on  tasting  the  fruit  upon  them,  should  condemn  them 
and  order  them  to  be  cut  down  and  removed — how 
should  we  characterize  his  folly  ?  He  has  criticized 
half-finished  fruit,  and  made  a  fatal  mistake.  It  is  just 


342  Lefibns  in  Life. 

as  unreasonable  to  condemn  a  half-finished  world  as  a 
half-finished  pear.  Human  society  must  be  brought 
to  perfection  by  regularly  instituted  and  slowly  operat- 
ing processes.  It  may  take  as  long  to  perfect  society 
as  it  did  to  create  the  world  that  it  lives  on  ;  and  God 
is  not  to  be  found  fault  with  for  the  flavor  of  a  fruit 
slowly  ripening  beneath  the  light  of  His  smile  and  the 
warmth  of  His  love,  but  not  yet  fully  ripe. 

Mr.  Buckle  has  undertaken  to  write  a  history  of 
civilization,  or,  rather,  he  has  commenced  to  write  an 
introduction  to  a  history  of  civilization.  His  progress 
has  not  been  great,  and  he  doubtless  realizes  that  he 
has  undertaken  a  task  which  he  can  never  finish.  He 
will  probably  labor  upon  it  while  he  lives,  and  then 
some  other  daring  man  will  take  up  the  thread  where 
he  will  drop  it,  and  go  on  until  he  in  turn  will  be 
obliged  to  relinquish  his  unfinished  task  to  a  successor. 
When  the  work  shall  be  finished,  after  its  original  de- 
sign, it  will  doubtless  be  found  to  be  antiquated.  It 
undertook  to  organize  a  half-finished  life — to  reason 
upon  forces  that  had  only  half  revealed  their  nature 
and  their  power — to  develop  principles  whose  relations 
were  imperfectly  known.  In  short,  it  must  necessarily 
prove  to  be  a  half-finished  history  of  a  half-finished 
civilization,  whose  every  newly-opened  event  will  throw 
a  modifying  light  on  all  that  shall  have  preceded  it. 

We  have,  therefore,  but  little  finished  work  in  this 


Half-Finiflied  Work.  343 

world.  Not  a  finished  character  lives  among  mankind. 
No  nation  of  the  world  illustrates  a  consummate  civil- 
ization. All  presentations  of  truth,  of  whatever  nature 
and  relation,  are  necessarily  incomplete.  Life  is  too 
short,  comprehension  too  limited  in  its  grasp,  and  ex- 
pression too  feeble  or  too  clumsy,  to  allow  the  mind 
fully  to  organize,  vitalize,  and  fill  out  to  roundness  and 
just  proportion,  a  single  creature  of  legitimate  art. 
It  is,  therefore,  literally  true  that  the  criticisms  of  the 
world  are  the  judgments  of  the  world's  half-finished 
men  on  the  world's  half-finished  affairs.  Imperfection 
sits  in  judgment  on  incompleteness,  and  the  natural 
consequence  is  that  criticism,  in  whatever  field  of 
demonstration,  is  little  more  than  a  record  of  notions 
which  assume  to  array  themselves  against  other  notions, 
which  may  be  better  or  worse  than  those  that  oppose 
them. 

It  is  with  a  depressing  sense  of  the  incompleteness 
of  these  lessons  in  life,  that  I  now  indite  their  closing 
paragraph.  I  cannot  but  be  aware  that  the  criticisms 
I  have  indulged  in  relate  very  largely  to  half-finished 
work,  and  I  painfully  feel  that  they  are  the  product  of 
a  most  imperfect  judgment.  If  the  reader  has  found 
them  kind,  charitable,  hopeful — tending  toward  that 
which  is  good — and  lenient  toward  human  frailty,  loyal 
to  common  sense,  and  faithful  to  virtue  ;  if  he  has  found 
in  them  that  which  leaves  him  a  larger  and  a  more 


344  Leffons  in  Life. 

liberal  man — advanced  in  some  degree  toward  that 
perfection  which  we  are  ever  striving  for,  but  which 
we  never  reach,  then  my  aim  has  been  accomplished, 
and  I  bid  him  God  speed  ! 


THE     END. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBRARYF«UTY 


A    000103363     8 


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